


Abandoned in a Ravine, Found in a Shallow Grave

by Mari_Knickerbocker



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), The Addams Family (Movies)
Genre: Addams Family AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang, Cryptid Family, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Harm to Children, M/M, Slow Burn, or maybe it's more of a pre-heat to a slow burn, slight HYDRA Steve but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-22 12:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mari_Knickerbocker/pseuds/Mari_Knickerbocker
Summary: Uncle Bucky came back to them in the dead of winter. Not at Christmas, although it would have been cooler if he had if Thor had anything to say about it. But, as usual, nobody was asking Thor. No, Uncle Bucky came back at the rather boring and uninspiring date of February 1st, in the middle of a snowstorm rife with thunder and lightning. It’s not, however, a coincidence that he returns on the anniversary of his disappearance all those years ago. Mother and Father believe it’s thanks to one timely (and persistent) seance and Dr. Zola’s help that they have Uncle Bucky back again. While Loki and (reluctantly) Hela and Thor, are of the opinion that the man claiming to be their long lost Uncle just might be a fraud.Then, of course, there’s the Nurse who’s meant to be taking care of Uncle Bucky and helping him adjust to being back home. Nurse Rogers doesn’t really look much like what one expects of a nurse and acts like one even less so.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, background Peggy Carter/Gabe Jones
Comments: 14
Kudos: 86
Collections: Captain America Big Bang 2019 | cabigbang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verbalatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbalatte/gifts), [raynaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raynaki/gifts).

> Hello! I'd like to start this off by thanking the CapBB Mods for all of their hard work. This event wouldn't be half of the fun without them.
> 
> I'd also like to thank [Verbalatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbalatte) and [Raynaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raynaki) for taking a chance on my summary slide and deciding that yes this was the fic they wanted to make wonderful pieces of art for. Their work is gorgeous and I can't wait for y'all to see it!
> 
> And lastly, I'd like to thank both [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/profile) and [DelphiPsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelphiPsmith) who helped beta this for me and were both amazing!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scheme is hatched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now updated with a header done by Raynaki 11/13/19

Even as a school bus pulled out of the neighborhood, a two-toned blue and silver luxury sedan turned down the secluded tree-lined road. While it wasn’t entirely unheard off to find luxury cars driving around this particular neighborhood, all of the cars that _belonged_ to the neighborhood were already well known - well as well as anyone could know a vehicle - and this particular car was an acquaintance at best, only showing up once every quarter or so. Although, it’d be more accurate to say that the owner of this particular car only showed up once every quarter while the current make and model was just now making its debut. It only made sense that an inspiring entrepreneur, and a damn “good” lawyer, such as he fancied himself to be, would only have the latest and best model toys.

Only the best of the best would do for Justin Hammer, and not because he _needed_ it or even earned it, let alone deserved it, but because appearances must be maintained. _This is only a temporary position, you don’t have to put up with it forever;_ Pepper reminds herself again with a purely internal sigh, in what has inadvertently become a daily mantra to help her retain her sanity while she’s stuck working for this... this schmuck. If she had her way, Pepper would not be working as the personal assistant for an average (to be generous) lawyer with a sense of entitlement that far outstripped his grasp of the law. But she needed a job, for one thing, and for another, she needed some job experience in order to get the job she was truly qualified for. Hammer, believe it or not, had been the lesser of the many evils when she had started her job search, and she only needed to put in a little more time with his firm before she could cut her losses in the form of one glowing recommendation and move on to greener pastures. Pepper’s after work decompression ritual consisted of pouring herself a generous glass of red wine and refreshing the job posting websites for anything and everything that could potentially be better than where she was now.

None of which really mattered as the car pulled up to the Barton-Romanov estate exuding an air of entitlement, that Pepper was ashamed to admit tarred her by virtue of the fact that she was _in_ it (intentions only got one so far in life), even as the driver blatantly double-parked in front of the only available fire hydrant. A deliberate choice on the part of their chauffeur, Stern, and it’s one he’s made consistently. Not for the first time, hell, not even for the millionth time, Pepper wished she had even a tenth of the confidence of a mediocre man.

Speaking of, the clammy weight of an unwanted hand landing proprietarily on her knee rudely brought Pepper out of her musings and back to the task before her, as well as her current in a long line of mediocre male employers. Delicately, and with a sense of finality about her that implied she would not tolerate being ignored, Pepper removed the offending limb from her person with the edge of her day planner. Mr. Hammer smiled at her in a manner that he clearly believed to be charming, but in actuality was utterly nauseating.

“Now remember, Ms. Potts, ideally we’d have Ms. Romanov donate multiple items for next weekend’s charity auction, but if you can only get her to agree to donate one item - understandable she’s a tough sell - then that’s more than enough! The Barton-Romanovs are generous to a fault, and I’m sure just that one item would be magnificent. What matters is that you try your best.”

“Of course Mr. Hammer,” she demurred, trying not to prolong yet another unnecessary conversation on how to do her job from a man who could barely manage his own. She knew all about his cooked books and the offshore accounts, and she only knew of them because he’d accidentally given her access to that spreadsheet to process a reimbursement before attempting to course-correct by calling it a training exercise. He thought she’d put any knowledge about his embezzling out of her mind, but instead she was keeping a detailed account of it all just in case the authorities ever came calling. The right thing to do would be to quit and take what she knew to the police herself directly, without making any stops along the way. But there was something about Hammer and a few of his clients that made her hesitate to become more than tangentially involved in whatever he had going on. Pepper would really rather just not know what those accounts were for or what exactly Hammer was up to; she just wanted one of her job applications to come through so that she could wash her hands of him and his blatant condescension. Once she’d thoroughly broken ties with _Alford, Hammer, Pierce, Esquire_ she would anonymously tip off the police to the true nature of some of the firm’s partner’s shady dealings.

“There’s a good girl,” Hammer praised her, lifting his hand to try and pat her on the knee. She blocked his hand with her day planner and he clasped it awkwardly for a moment before giving up on that ridiculous pseudo-father figure gesture. She was a grown woman, for Christ’s sake, “Can always count on you to be a team player.”

She smiled wanly back at him, just enough to make him think he’d left an impression on her, and hopefully it was enough to both appease him and encourage him to leave her alone for now. It seemed to have done the trick because he chuckled patronizingly under his breath before grabbing his briefcase and slipping out of the car. She was surprised he didn’t either a) wait around until Stern remembered to come around and get the door for him, b) remind the man that that was one of the things he paid him for or c) make Pepper get out on her side then come around and open his door for him. All of which were things that had happened before. Whatever business brought Hammer to the Barton-Romanov estate today, she was not naive enough to believe it was just the upcoming charity auction, or picking up the money for the monthly expenses. After all she can handle that herself, and has been for the last couple of years. This must be very important indeed if he’s willing to actually _do_ things for himself for once. Hammer stopped coming with her to collect the monthly expenses after her second month with the firm as his personal assistant - his doing the bare minimum mentality was legendary. Pepper took the chance while his back was turned to discreetly roll her eyes at him before following him out of the vehicle.

She caught up to Hammer where he’d paused at the front gate, staring off to the left where a macabre scarecrow lounged against the spiked fence. Pepper, because she was here when the kids had put it up for Halloween and then subsequently ‘forgot’ to take it down, knew that it was just a very good replica of weathered deer bones dressed-up in a flannel shirt, jeans, and straw hat. There was straw sticking out from under the cuffs of the shirt and around the buttons, as if it had at one time been stuffed with hay. (At least she hoped and believed it to be a replica, the estate’s residents had what one would consider a dark sense of humor.) It looked like someone decided to decorate it for the most recent holidays by draping a string of snowflake-shaped fairy lights over its antlers and around the limbs hooked over the top railing of the fence.

Hammer was staring at it as if it had been done deliberately to offend him. Personally, Pepper found it odd but charming. Really, she preferred the kids’ _Nightmare Before Christmas_-inspired decorations to the stuffed and mounted animal trophies so often found as part of business office decor for the rich and spoiled who hunted for sport in an attempt to relieve the endless stretch of boredom that was all money could buy those who sought satisfaction form material goods. Hammer also just didn’t trust the main gate on principle, liked to claim that it was haunted. Pepper didn’t care to humor him. Particularly not today, not when his hesitation left her standing in the accumulated winter sludge at the entrance of the drive with just her sensible work heels and a navy business suit to combat the weather. Sure her grey peacoat did block some of the wind, and did a reasonably decent job of cutting out the cold, but her legs were still exposed to the elements out here with nothing but stockings to protect them. It was only just the tail end of January. While a part of her could understand the double-take at the patched-together decorations as well as Hammer’s suspicions about the gate, the rest of her just could not be bothered.

Ignoring Hammer, she trudged up through the worn tracks in the snow and sludge right to the wicket in the ironwork gate that stretched across the entrance to the estate. Gate and she had an understanding; it’s the same one she’d come to share with the majority of quirks unique to the Barton-Romanov estate. She’d believe in, and even accept, whatever it is she was witnessing, and in return, they wouldn’t go out of their way to deliberately torment her. Hammer had never bothered to accommodate the peculiarities of the house and its residents, and therefore they’d never bothered to work with him.

“Hello, Gate,” she murmured to the worn ironwork, “mind letting me in today?” She’d found that it was possible to get just about anywhere she wanted to go by having an open mind and a desire to be kind; both of those things had certainly served her well while dealing with the residents (animate and allegedly inanimate alike) of the Barton-Romanov estate.

Case in point, Gate rewarded her inquiry by allowing the wicket to swing open with a muffled squeak of its rusty hinges that could have easily been mistaken for a cat’s welcoming trill.

Pepper surreptitiously pat the intricate ironwork in a silent thanks even as Hammer stalked past her through the opening, causing Gate to quiver with a rattling purr and Hammer to scurry like a startled bug. Pepper had a theory about Gate being capable of sensing fear for all that it acted like an overgrown house cat in her presence. It seemed to go out of its way to antagonize Hammer and those few others it had deemed unworthy of its affection. One could almost call it predatory in that regard. Still, Gate liked her for whatever reason and she’d never had an issue gaining entrance to the estate, unlike Hammer who’d lost a coat or two. Pepper couldn’t help the little smirk she indulged in as she followed Hammer up the remainder of the drive.

She’s always liked the look of the Barton-Romanov estate, it’s a lovely old girl and a prime example of Victorian Gothic Revival. It's blocky in its general construction, but there’s a certain imposing grace to it with the hip and gabled roof and the pointed arches of the windows with their tracery. There’s wisteria and ivy trailing up the glass of the conservatory, obscuring it mostly from view. The house had been constructed with brick that’s weathered to a slate gray, and the woodwork on it had to have once been painted a lustrous burgundy, but that has faded over the years. The whole estate has a look of carefully cultivated neglect, brought about not so much from lack of funding or care for it but because that is the personal aesthetic the owners wanted to achieve.

The front door was made from a dense wood, either oak, mahogany, or alder, Pepper couldn't tell (she wasn’t an expert), with iron fittings to keep it in place. An intricate scrollwork was carved into the wood that always put Pepper in mind of some of the engravings found in old manuscripts. She hadn’t yet been able to put her finger on which ones, and she wasn’t given much time to try and figure it out today. What with Hammer banging away at the door to be allowed inside.

They were greeted at the door by the estate’s butler, a willowy fellow whose movements often put Pepper in mind of trees swaying in the wind. There was a sort of fluidity to the sometimes stiff pull of his limbs, this sense of watching something reluctantly bend to outside forces not to be broken by them - an easy give and sway that belied an inner strength. Having watched and enjoyed - although she’d never admit it out loud - the _Lord of the Rings_ films, Pepper can’t help but wonder every time she sees Groot if Tolkien was onto something with those Ents. Groot was undoubtedly reminiscent of Treebeard in many respects, in fact, she wondered if Ents had been real once and Groot a descendant of them.

“Hello Groot,” Pepper greeted him even as she removed her peacoat and gloves. Groot accepted the clothing from her willingly and with a warm welcoming hum in acknowledgement of her greeting. Groot isn’t one for talking much, not to anyone outside of the family. Rocket, in particular, appeared to be Groot’s favorite; the two of them were thick as thieves. Believing in Ents certainly made accepting Rocket easier. If there could be such things as Ents, then why not a racoon who moved and spoke like a human being?

Groot ignored Hammer, however, much like Justin tended to ignore them, tossing his coat and gloves at the butler as if Groot were a living, breathing coat rack. Groot handled Hammer’s clothing much like one would a used diaper, with a great deal of reluctance and with the understanding that it was unavoidable. Pepper, meanwhile, smiled apologetically for her boss’ rudeness and made sure to thank Groot again, then descended the few steps into the foyer.

Hammer had already made his own way down the steps and was just starting to pull away from Pepper toward the left-hand hallway that would lead him to Mr. Barton’s study, when an arrow whistled past his ear close enough for the fletching to ruffle his hair before thudding into the overly large dartboard Groot just so happened to have had ready and waiting. (The air of exhausted resignation in which Groot handled the dartboard ruled out any chance of it being luck.) Pepper didn’t stop herself from checking to see if, once again, a perfect bullseye had been shot. It came as no surprise to find the arrow quivering from lingering momentum, pinned to the center of the board. She peered back down the hallway, ignoring Hammer’s indignant sputtering, and caught a quick glimpse of the man responsible for the shot in the reflection in the hall mirror. Mr. Barton’s skill really was unparalleled.

“Mr. Hammer,” a husky feminine voice purred in greeting, “how kind of you to join us today. As you can see, my husband has missed your visits.” The voice’s amusement enriched its timbre.

Both Pepper and Justin turned toward the grand staircase to find Ms. Romanov standing just a few steps from the bottom and dead center, waiting to welcome them to her home. As always, she was impeccably dressed in skinny black jeans so tight that they might as well be a second skin, a black knitted top with a red undershirt peeking through the eyelets. On her feet, she wore black Converse sneakers with red tongues. It was a surprisingly ageless look that played off of the youthfulness of Ms. Romanov’s flawless face.

“Well, shouldn’t keep the old boy waiting then, should I?” Hammer remarked rather inanely rubbing his hands together in an ingratiating manner. It was clear to anyone with eyes that he was attempting to regain a sense of equilibrium after the close encounter with an arrow. It was also obvious that Hammer believed it made him sound Continental, intelligent, and well-traveled to spout such cliched slang like ‘old boy’ and ‘good chap’; when in reality he just sounded like an unctuous buffoon.

“No, you should not,” Ms. Romanov replied, smiling wide and sharp, her teeth blinding white against the dark red of her lips. Her green eyes glinting like a hunting cat cornering her prey. While Hammer did not audibly gulp at her expression, his nerves were evident in the visible bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed whatever reservations that were suddenly trying to choke him.

Hammer turned to look at Pepper, either for reassurance, or to remind her for the umpteenth time what she was there to do. She, wisely, didn’t give him an opening to do either of those things. Instead, she graced him with a closed-mouth smile, the corners of her mouth turned up just enough so that the gesture couldn’t be mistaken for a grimace, and not-so-subtly shooed him on his way down the hall. Thankfully, he took the hint, squaring his shoulders and re-assuming some of his usual bravado.

Pepper watched just long enough to ensure that he was truly gone before turning back towards the stairs and smiling warmly at the woman waiting there, amusement at Hammer’s idiocy palpable.

“Natasha,” she greeted, stepping forward to meet the other woman halfway in a warm embrace, then placing a kiss on each cheek in rapid succession.

“Pepper, always a delight to see you,” Natasha replied, much more sincerely than she had been just a moment before. Pepper had always known that the estate and its residents liked her best as she was allowed to use their given names, and was treated with sincerity. Just two of many points in her favor.

“I got your message about needing items for the annual charity auction. As always we’re happy to supply a few items. If you’ll follow me upstairs, Mamma and Rocket should be done setting up everything for you to look over.”

“I’m sure whatever you’ve selected is absolutely perfect, but are you positive that you’re willing to part with this years’ offerings? I don’t mean to offend, Natasha but you and Clint do have a reputation for buying back your own donations.” 

“But that’s half the fun, Pepper,” Natasha replied, tossing her red curls over her shoulder, and gave Pepper a teasing wink as she led her up the stairs. Pepper chuckled under her breath as she followed. The Barton-Romanov's were well known for their antics at the annual Widows and Orphans charity auction that _Alford, Hammer, Pierce Esquire_ had been putting on for years now - it was practically an institution in their sleepy little town, as was whatever kind of bidding war Clint and Natasha inescapably fell into and then inevitably fall out of. There was usually a very generous fifty-fifty book open on what item of theirs there would be a bidding war over and the manner of resolution. The fee for the bets increased exponentially for every suggestion beyond a mature rating.

“Half the fun for who?” Pepper speculated, even as she was led into the upstairs parlor to find Rocket straightening the last few items placed on display for her perusal. Peggy’s there, sitting in an antique rocking chair and knitting, although Pepper didn’t for a moment believe her to be innocent. Especially not when she drew nearer to the table and got a better look at what they’ve chosen, and spied what she thought might be a genuine Medieval sex toy. 

Natasha merely smiled enigmatically at her question and removed the contraception with minimal prodding, after Pepper pointed it out to her with a reproving, “Mama, Rocket.”

Rocket didn’t hide his snickering before taking the item in question from her then scurrying off to put it away while Peggy favored them with an innocently arched eyebrow and a mischievous grin.Things settled into the familiar rhythm of Pepper’s usual visits to the estate shortly after that. With minimal fuss they finished working their way through the remaining items, earmarking what the estate would actually attempt to sell and what Natasha would buy back during the auction.

** ~***~**~***~**

.

The ride back to the office was accompanied by sullen silence. Whatever Hammer had been after he clearly did not get from Mr. Barton. Or perhaps as was often the case, he’d gotten just close enough to getting exactly what he wanted, so close that he could taste it, when Clint had shut him down. There were several good reasons why Pepper had been the one collecting the Barton-Romanov estate’s monthly expenses. She knew better than to try and push them into any new business, and that seemed to be all Justin Hammer knew how to do - mainly with the goal of lining his own pocket, if one were being honest.

Hammer was careful to unceremoniously dump his illegible ledger on Pepper’s desk while clinging to the briefcase full of gold doubloons that represented the Barton-Romanov's expenses. Experience had taught her that he would lug it around until he had secured its contents in the office safe, with a generous percentage set aside for himself, no doubt. Pepper didn’t bother to quash the urge to roll her eyes, indulging in such an epic eye roll that she would have been in danger of rattling them right out of her skull if it were physically possible. Meanwhile, Justin “oblivious” Hammer stomped off to his office, radiating a sulk heavy enough to put a teenage boy to shame. On his way through, he managed to slam into the heavy wooden door hard enough that it swung wildly behind him and failed to latch properly. The gap left between door jamb and door was like a neon sign designed to invite eavesdroppers. Sound floated easily through it, and Pepper clearly heard every word while she packed up for the evening. If the process took a little longer than usual, well then that’s just between herself and the clock.

(While Pepper might not have _formally_ gone to the police with her suspicions, not to mention the various bits of evidence she had collected, she **had** consulted a former girlfriend. However. Maria had enough police connections that Pepper felt emboldened to continue with her investigative efforts. It gave her an immense sense of security knowing that Maria was now in the loop and would be there to have her back.) 

A surprised squawk, followed by the sound of a heavy briefcase falling on a desktop served as a forceful reminder that she didn’t have the leeway to lose focus.

“Did we have a meeting tonight? I don’t have you on my calendar.” Hammer’s posturing came across clear as a bell as he tried to not only regain a sense of dignity (after that embarrassing squeaking) but also bluff his way out of forgetting a meeting she knew she had added to his Outlook and personal Google calendars. Pepper scoffed at that line of bull; he always met with Mr. Pierce after he’d been to the Barton-Romanov estate. Hence Pepper would nag Hammer so that he told her every time he planned to take a trip out there. She wanted to be able to be in contact with Mr. Pierce’s administrative assistant, Dolly, and arrange everything ahead of time. Between the need to schedule a flight up from Washington, D.C., and book a hotel room, Pepper preferred to have more than a few weeks’ notice to plan everything out between herself and Dolly, instead of the handful of days she used to have to accomplish the near-impossible, according to Mr. Pierce’s very exacting standards. She especially needed the time to make sure that the recorder she had hidden in Hammer’s office would be all set to go.

“I should be meeting with Alexander instead of you.” That tidbit of information caused Pepper to pause.

“Mr. Pierce sent me in his stead,” a weasley voice with the tick of a Germanic accent answered him. It's not a voice she recalled ever having heard before, “matters in Washington require his personal attention at this delicate time. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, of course.” The insincerity was, quite frankly, palpable. “How can I help you, Armin?”

“There’s concern, you understand, about your quarterly contributions to the cause, Mr. Hammer.” The contempt this stranger held for Hammer was obvious to Pepper, but for whatever reason, her boss just didn’t see it. Then again, obliviousness was his superpower. “You’ve fallen behind in your obligations, and we just can’t have that.”

“I can get the money,” Hammer attempted to bargain, becoming aware of the severity of his situation too late to be useful.

“We’ve heard this argument before Mr. Hammer. Why do you think I’ve been brought in for a hands-on approach? Soldier.”

Following that one word came the dull thud of Hammer’s back rattling off the wall right next to the propped open door. He had been shoved forcefully into it, and another startled yelp escaped him. Pepper jumped at the sudden violence. One sharp look at the door revealed the shadowy outline of a man with greasy shaggy hair that partially obscured his features. The only thing distinctive she could make out was the glint of metal down the length of his left arm.

“Mr. Pierce is severely disappointed with your lack of benefactions, and he’s beginning to wonder about your commitment to our cause. I’ve been sent to remind you what happens to those who try to double-cross us.”

“Oh c’mon man, that’s not necessary. Not necessary at all!” Hammer’s voice went up an octave, even as the wall rattled ominously. She heard another dull thud, like something had been kicked open.

“Mr. Hammer, have you been lying to us?”

“No! Those doubloons are from the Barton-Romanov account, I just collected them today. The balance would have been in the joint account by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. Besides, there’s more where that came from; a whole fortune that I’ve been trying to get at for ages!”

“Have you tried everything? Ask him, Soldier.”

“No Soldier, don’t ask him…. Wait, Barnes?” Hammer sounded incredulous.

The air within Hammer’s office went suddenly still, and Pepper, who should have made her exit a threat-and-a half-ago, watched the shadowy figure. It’s because of that, that Pepper noticed him flinching while taking a startled step away from where he had Hammer pinned against the wall. The movement brought his face further into the light and she saw the resemblance that prompted Hammer’s question. Pepper had a long familiarity with James’ family portrait and the similarities between the painting and the stranger before her were unmistakable. She whimpered involuntary at the revelation. The sound loud enough that it captured the Soldier's attention, and his brief stare was intense enough that it pinned her in place. She would have felt like a mouse caught within the gaze of a snake if not for the wounded lost look in his crystal clear blue eyes.

“Who is this Barnes?” The stranger, Armin, demanded, breaking the moment and the Soldier’s gaze slipped away from Pepper. There’d been a very clear message in the way he deliberately chose to forget her lingering presence.

And Pepper didn’t need to be told twice. Cautiously, she finished gathering up her own things, then slowly backed away toward the door of their office suite. A small attempt not to draw any more attention to herself, that she hoped would be successful. She managed to silently open the main door and slip halfway through it without turning her back, only to stop when she noticed those pleading eyes again focusing on her. Uncertain as to why she felt compelled to do so, Pepper nodded. As if it were an acknowledgement of some unspoken request. The Soldier slowly blinked back at her in return. Pepper took her chance then, and left. She didn’t realize that she’d been holding her breath until she had driven at least three blocks away from the building. That was when her lack of oxygen made pulling over a necessity. Then, figuring that since she’d already been forced to park the car, she might as well call Maria. Willful ignorance was a state of being in which she no longer wanted to indulge.

That ‘little boy lost’ look had burrowed its way into her mind's eye. And it occurred to her that if their exchange of a nod and a blink had felt like the signing of an unwritten contract, then she needed to hold up her end. Somehow, for better or for worse, she had agreed to help the unnamed Soldier without thinking it through. Good thing she had been planning to report all this to Maria, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission is assigned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank both Vextant and M_bsides for letting me borrow the most excellent of band names

Somewhere in an empty and too-large house, a phone rang. There was nothing personal about the home at all. In fact, it would be more accurate to call the place a museum. Clearly, it had never intended to be a ‘home,’ but rather a tomb. Yet somewhere in this rambling pile of a mausoleum, an old Bakelite phone had rang. And it continued to do so without being answered. There’d been an urgency to its tone that’s lost as the noise puttered off into silence. Then it rang again.

And rang….

…..and rang.

Whoever was on the other end of the call was a persistent bastard if nothing else.

One could make the argument that it took awhile for the sound of the ringing to reach the ear of anyone currently in the house. And that would be a reasonable conclusion to make. However, it was far more likely that the home’s current occupant (who had been waiting for this particular phone to ring, despite hoping it never would) was ignoring it. Out of either indecision or spite, it was difficult to say. Knowing him, the answer could very easily be an even fifty-fifty split.

The phone rang again, only to be cut off abruptly mid-jingle.

“Two minutes. That’s all you have to convince me that picking up was worth it.”

_ “We’re calling in that favor you still owe us.” _

“I don’t owe you any favors.”

_ “No, not me. Director Emeritus Carter, however, I do believe you owe several.” _

“That’s between myself and Director Carter; you have no business” - he began to scold the caller, only to be abruptly cut off. His knuckles went white where he clutched at the old receiver, causing the Bakelite to crackle dangerously.

_ “I do if I’m making this call on her behalf, which I am. Information, of a delicate nature, has recently fallen into our possession that Director Carter would like you to oversee. Personally.” _

At that, the man allowed his silence to do his talking for him. Evidently, that’s all the permission his mysterious caller needed to push him. He barely listened as the caller detailed exactly what it was they wanted from him. They pleaded their case and he knew, he _**knows**_, that he could not walk away. Moreover, they knew it too. That simply infuriated him. There wasn’t a whole lot that he wouldn’t do for Director Carter. They ended their sales pitch by reminding him that if not for Carter, then he wouldn’t be him. And, well, that’s just unnecessarily twisting a knife that didn’t exist. (He knew that it was Carter’s word that had gotten him into Project Rebirth. Carter, along with Erskine’s belief in the man he had always been, had barely been enough to ensure his spot in the project. But he had always known his value. Even when, _especially_ when, others couldn’t see it. He had never needed to become superhuman to be worthy of the faith Carter had placed in him. Now or then.) That they believed him so shallow as to need that kind of reminder caused him to snort out a mirthless laugh. It was ugly for its scorn.

As if he wouldn’t do everything in his power to help Carter bring home her wayward son. Of course, he’s fucking going to help. Bastards, knew it too, damn them.

_ “Glad to see this situation amuses you, Captain.” _

“I don’t know what’s funnier, that I thought you guys would ever give up, or the fact that you honestly believe you’ll wear me down. This is the last _**favor**_ you’re getting out of me.”

He hung up then, a heavy feeling in his gut. He knew himself well enough to recognize the taste of a lie. 

** ~***~**~***~**

Uncle Bucky came back to them in the dead of winter. Not at Christmas, although it would have been cooler if he had if Thor had anything to say about it. But, as usual, nobody was asking Thor. He’d complained about that for a bit until Hela told him to stop being such a baby. No, Uncle Bucky came back on the rather dull and uninspiring date of February 1st. 

The fact that it also happened to be the anniversary of his initial disappearance thirty-four years ago was lost on Thor. It might as well have not even been in the same universe for how little it registered. This wasn’t a fact that escaped Loki’s attention, however. Then again, he had a tendency to put more stock in details than either of his older siblings. That, in the grand scheme of things, might very well have been an inconsequential fact. But it was worth noting that Loki, unlike Thor or Hela, paid better attention. A detail of greater consequence, however, was that Uncle Bucky did not return on his own but instead was escorted by the doctor.

More important than either of those facts, however, was the fact that the Uncle Bucky, who had returned only in the vaguest of senses, resembled the Uncle Bucky who had vanished. At least, that’s the impression Loki’s gotten from Mother and Father. And that seemed to be the only thing that he, Hela, and Thor currently agreed upon. That in and of itself was such a rarity that it should not go ignored. 

What did capture Thor’s attention, were the circumstances of Uncle Bucky’s return. Or rather, more specifically the weather. It wasn’t often that one was lucky enough to witness thundersnow in action. And Thor, quite frankly, was in his element. He stood out in the front courtyard and attempted to call a bolt of lightning down with the aid of an old television antenna. Honestly the perfect pastime for a boy of thirteen. Thor’s caught lightning before. But any old thing can catch lightning during a thunderstorm. That’s old hat, been there, done that. Not everyone can say they’ve had the chance to catch lightning in the snow! It even put him in mind of his great-great (many times removed) grandmama who had once bartered safe voyage upon a flying ship specifically designed for lightning harnessing.

Hela and Rocket both joined him in the courtyard, more for the chance of watching Thor be struck by lightning than anything else. Although they did eventually decide to help. If they happened to witness Thor singeing himself, then all the better. Loki watched them from the relative safety of the front porch. 

That was typical of Loki, always watching. Up until an hour ago, he had been in knife-fighting lessons with Mother and Grandmama while Groot had consented to be their demonstration dummy. Thor probably should have joined them. Particularly, since both Mother and Father believed everyone should be well-versed in the art of self-defense. He had had a solo lesson with Father earlier that day, the history of fencing, but Father had cut him loose as soon as they saw the storm start to roll in.

Father always had a good sense of how long he could hold Thor’s attention, and usually tried not to push past that limit if it could be helped. Thor was not like Loki, a certified bibliophile. Loki could easily spend an entire afternoon poring over his books. While Thor did not mind reading, he wasn’t like Loki; he preferred to be **doing** something as opposed to sitting still. He needed to work off his excess energy before he could properly concentrate on anything. Nor was he like Hela, who, well, truthfully, Hela was just scary. She could accomplish whatever task she put her mind to, and often that was with inspired, and unforeseen, consequences. Given the fact that Thor had already spent a full day at school, Father knew Thor would find it difficult to focus on the theory behind his Agrippa. Father always seemed to know precisely when movement was just what Thor needed. Chasing lightning was a perfect alternative.

Besides, he _really_ needed more bottled lightning as stage dressing for _The Thundering Ents_ next show. He’d promised Valkyrie as much, and he’d dare not go back on a promise. Especially one made to Val. _The Thundering Ents_ were Val’s and Hela’s band. Or, rather, they had been Val’s and Hela’s band back when they were called the _Amozionans,_ and had been an all-girl group. But then Hela and Val had had some sort of argument. Over what Thor never really knew. All he knew was that suddenly people left the band and started taking sides, and for a while Val and Hela stopped talking to each other entirely. It was all very confusing. Now the group had been reincarnated as _The Thundering Ents_ with a whole new lineup. And it was Valkyrie’s baby. Hela still attended rehearsals though. Just so she’d have an excuse for making cow-eyes at Heimdall.

The life of a pre-teen grunge rocker in a garage band was turbulent, to say the least. Father had become fond of saying as much throughout the whole fiasco.

Thor tried not to bother himself with all of that. His concern was the few jobs Val would entrust to him as the group’s official stage manager. The most important task was set dressing. If he could gather enough lightening now, then not only would they have plenty to use as decoration, they could smash some of the bottles so that the lightning was released, like as a personalized special effect. No other startup garage band could boast effects like that. Thor hoped that with just a few months of additional practice he could talk Val into allowing him to try out again. Groot and Heimdall both were already in the band, so he figured he had a bit of an _in_, as it were. He kept hoping that his age wouldn’t automatically disqualify him. Okay, okay, so he was just thirteen, and the rest were, like, in high school. And Groot was, well, no one really knew how old Groot really was, but Thor could hope. He’d been working really hard on mastering more than one instrument, just so he could claim to be a bit of a virtuoso. So far he’s learned how to play the saxophone (although that was for school), and the drums. It was a good thing to have personal goals and ambitions at such a young age. At least that’s what Grandmama said, and well, Thor thought it worth the effort. Definitely thought it worth all of Hela’s teasing.

Father and Mother understood his passion for music, and encouraged it. Father certainly seemed to understand his desire to impress Valkyrie and the rest, while Mother found it endearing. It was moments like these - standing out in a furious snowstorm in nothing more than jeans and a hoodie, a jean jacket layered over it, waving an old television antenna about his head trying to call down lightning, that Thor found himself indescribably grateful for the family he and his siblings were lucky enough to have found. Here they were all understood, even appreciated for who they were, and that was a priceless discovery. 

He’d only just managed to capture the perfect spiecem. - and still laughed from the joy of it. Even while he felt the lingering crackling of power dance its way through his veins and over his skin, down from the antenna and into one of his specially made containment jars. Rocket held the jar for Thor, ready to slam the lid on it as soon as the charge cleared the rim. And Hela had busied herself by arranging the other already-filled jars in their insulation packaged box. They had both grown bored waiting for Thor to get struck, and decided to _actually_ help. 

Then Mother called, “Children, we’re starting! Thor put down that antenna.” Mother’s amusement at his antics was palpable. Another flash of lightning split the snow-filled sky just as she called them back into the house. Thor’s reluctance to leave the courtyard was obvious, but a nudge forward and a wink from Rocket proved to be enough to encourage him to get a move-on. There would always be another storm.

** ~***~**~***~**

Loki thought it was spectacular seance weather. Moreover, Grandmama agreed. She claimed that this storm echoed the one that had occurred the night Uncle Bucky disappeared. According to Grandmama it was a promising sign.

“Whatever the fuck that’s suppose to mean,” Rocket said, ignoring the half-hearted swat Groot sent in his direction for swearing. Not to mention Mother’s pointed pause as she filed her nails with her favorite penknife.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d make a pretty hat, but I’m more useful as a tinkerer. I know the score, no need to get stabby, madame,” Rocket sassed Mother, giving her a raccoon’s equivalent of a cheeky grin. Loki bit his lip and kept himself from smiling. He’d been trying to emulate Mother’s cool amusement. He believed it made him look grown up. Whereas Thor let loose with a boisterous chuckle, unselfconscious in his mirth. He was like Father in that regard.

“One of these days, friend rabbit, that joke will wear itself thin,” Thor informed him. Rocket merely shrugged in reply. Mother, satisfied that her displeasure at his word choice had, at least for now, been acknowledged, returned to refining her already deadly manicure. Father, having noticed the conversation, did nothing but continue to pace the length of the front hallway, waiting for their last two guests to arrive.

“Come here, little one,” Grandmama beckoned, and Loki followed easily. He spied a bright mischievous glint in her brown eyes that sold promises of a tall tale. While he could easily guess at what the story might be - she always saved one in particular for this night - it did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for hearing it. “You as well Thor, Hela...” She paused there to make sure she had their attention. “And let me tell you about a good man named James Buchanan Barnes. You might know him as your Uncle Bucky.”

She always started the story the same way. (Loki could practically recite it in his sleep.) But this year something was different about her retelling. Whether it was her pacing, or Grandmama’s tone of voice, Loki wasn’t sure. It sounded more real to him tonight than it ever had before; almost as if by speaking about him, Grandmama had brought their Uncle back to life. But that was just silly. They were about to have a seance to try to commune with Uncle Bucky from beyond the grave. Or rather, at the very least, try to confirm that he was in fact dead. Exactly like the family does every February 1st. As far back as 1980. Ten years after they lost Uncle Bucky, and Mother was first forced to concede that she might have to find him by using less conventional methods. At least, according to family lore.

“But that wasn’t the first time we lost him,” Grandmama confessed, her rich voice lowered into a conspiring whisper. The rasp of her confession shocked Loki out of his bored musing with a jolt, evoking within him the same effect as that lightning bolt that Thor had called down into the courtyard with the old TV antenna. There was a tingling sensation that jangled through Loki’s veins after that revelation. He was half-convinced that he _had_ **been** struck by a stray bolt. (It would not have been the first time. Thor had a knack for directing lightning that far surpassed most naturalists’ understanding. Hela had an affinity for encouraging it.) Instinctively, he turned to Mother seeking clarification, even as he wondered if Grandmama was mistaken. If he hadn’t already had ample proof that his Grandmama’s memory was like a steel trap, Loki would be worried (and fascinated by the idea) that her mind was slipping.

“I always did say that we needed to put a bell on you both,” Father commented, strolling behind Mother’s wingback chair. He paused just long enough to bestow a kiss upon her expectant cheek before he paced back out into the foray. Mother’s noncommittal shrug was as eloquent as flowing water, while her mischievous smirk had an edge sharper than Loki’s favorite throwing knife.

“What do you mean, Grandmama?” Hela asked, forgetting herself long enough to lean forward with avid interest. Lately she had been playing the part of the disinterested teen. Apparently even that facade couldn’t last in the face of one of Grandmama’s family stories.

“What a silly question, child. ‘What do you mean,’ indeed! Surely I have told you this before? It is no fault of mine if you do not listen.” She deliberately dragged out the suspense of this family revelation; she knew very well that they’d never heard this part before. Just like they knew that she knew it. But lately Hela, in particular, and to some extent, Thor and Loki himself, have taken to paying less attention to their Grandmama. Particularly when they should have been listening. She was never one to pass up a teaching opportunity.

“Margaret,” Father scolded Grandmama. He did so with a sly smile that heavily implied he appreciated the joke. Moreover, he wouldn't mind it if she continued it.

“Clinton,” she countered, never one to be outdone by her son-in-law.

“Really Mama, you’re worse than the children,” Mother said with a chuckle, finishing off the touch-up to her manicure with a flourish. Her nails looked perfect, as usual.

“Of course I am dear, where do you think they learned it?”

“Grandmama, please!” Hela interrupted the adults' banter, “Tell us of Uncle Bucky, we want to know!”

“Oh! Well, with such a captivated audience, how could I refuse?” It was a rhetorical question. Loki knew this. But it did nothing to stop him from nodding in encouragement, nor did it prevent Thor and Hela from signaling their own agreement. Grandmama smiled winningly at them. An unreadable light shone in the depths of her still-vibrant eyes as she launched herself into the rest of her story.

“You know, of course, that your Uncle Bucky fought in the Great War. That he went on many dangerous missions while working to stop Hydra.” They nodded, for this was not new information to them. “And how that took a toll on him. War does that to those who are gentle at heart but made to fight. What I’m sure you didn’t know is that we lost your Uncle on one of those missions.”

She goes on to tell them a harrowing story about chasing a mad scientist on a runaway train. In the dead of winter, travel through the Alps for Uncle Bucky, his Howling Commandos and herself had been treacherous. But they persevered. She paints them a picture: Of a gaping chasm and a fragile rail line clinging to a mountainside; how a few brave men gathered on the opposite peak and prepared themselves to jump the fathomless depth to catch a train. The siblings become so engrossed in her tale that they leaned forward in their respective seats. They practically tried to inhale each word as Grandmama voiced them.

This was new information that needed to be treasured. Loki could recite by heart the story about how Uncle Bucky and Mother tracked an evil scientist to his last-ditch escape via plane by heart. He could picture the leap they took to catch the plane as it started to take off. How Mother tried to land the aircraft even as Uncle Bucky attempted to find and capture the scientist. That’s the story Grandmama usually told them on February 1st. 

Moreover, it used to be Loki’s favorite thing to act out when playing make-believe. (Alright, there was no _‘used to be’_ about it. It was still Loki’s favorite.) Instead of playing house or school like other kids his age did, he would pretend to be Mother as she realized that the plane was booby-trapped and doomed to crash. He could act out her yelling at Uncle Bucky to forget about the scientist and bail with a skill many actors would have envied. He would always make Thor play with him. And in the games everyone would make it off of the plane just in the nick of time.

That had always made for a better story in his head. Compared to what had actually happened. In real life, Mother had been only one to escape before the bomb went off. Uncle Bucky and the scientist were both caught up in the explosion, then lost to sea when the plane crashed somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. The best anyone could figure was that they had sunk somewhere near the tropic of Cancer. 

Anyone who listened to that tale would logically assume that Uncle Bucky had died. Mother and Grandmama, however, assumed the opposite. Loki always wondered if that was just a particular quirk of their family. Finding faith in the macabre and impossible when no one else could find it. But now, listening to Grandmama as she told them all about this adventure, he suspected it was something else. If she and Uncle Bucky once rappelled down a zip line to land on top of a moving train, to break in to capture an enemy combatant, then they had to have been more resilient than average. Loki could understand now why they didn’t believe Uncle Bucky was dead. Apparently, he had tricked Death before. And if he could do it once, then what’s to stop him from doing so twice? 

It was _highly_ improbable. But then again, that was Loki’s family - making the improbable commonplace. Bedsides, the first time Uncle Bucky “died,” he fell from a moving train into a steep ravine, only to somehow survive it. Therefore, why not believe he rode out the blast from an exploding plane? Who was Loki to decide what an Uncle he hasn’t even met is capable of doing? Those questions, and their possible answers, occupied his thoughts even as Grandmama finished her tale. 

He barely heard her describe how she searched for their uncle in that snowy ravine. It was wasted on Loki. He didn’t listen as Grandmama told them how she lost herself in the snow and ice trying to find the body. Or how Grandfather, left alone to complete their task, dismantled what remained of their enemy’s plans. Loki didn’t feel guilty about tuning out that part. After all, the children had learned about Hydra in school. Although it was important to remember that what’s written in the history books is done so by the winners. Additionally, there had been nothing written about recent history that even came close to Grandmama’s store of knowledge. History could never compare to lived experience.

Grandmama finished recounting her story, and Loki came back to himself as if he’d just woken from a dream. He could tell from the way Hela slowly sat back in her chair and the way Thor blinked blearily to himself, that they felt equally as dazed.

Before any of them thought to ask Grandmama any questions, the front door chimes rang out, and broke the lingering spell of her story. Mother went to greet their guests, and as she passed by Thor, she dragged her fingers through his hair. She gave Hela a nod, and then kissed Loki on his cheek. It was how she always comforted them when she thought they were overwhelmed. Hela, reassured by Mother’s gesture, decided to check the preparations for the night's seance, a job she took seriously ever since she’d started to study the art at Grandmama’s elbow. 

They could all hear Mother talking to their guests before she led them into the sitting room. While Loki liked Ms. Potts, mostly, he wasn’t keen on Mr. Hammer at all. None of them really were. Father called him a necessary evil, just a means to an end. Exactly what end he was careful to never mention in front of the children. He knew curiosity didn’t just kill the cat. It was surprising that Mr. Hammer agreed to visit the estate for the second time in the same fiscal quarter. Granted, his last visit had just been a week ago, it was still an occasion worthy of suspicion.

Of course, Loki was always suspicious even if the same could not be said of Hela and Thor. And while he and his siblings might not be aware of all of the undercurrents currently at play - how could they be? - they were smart enough to know when to pay attention. That was all that Mother and Father ever asked of them. Although, it went without saying, some paid better attention than others.

Mother led their guests back into the sitting room to find the table was set and ready. Everyone else was already seated around it with three chairs standing empty, waiting to be filled. As soon as they took their seats, the summoning circle would be complete. Along with the remaining participates, Mother brought with her the raven candelabra to place it in the center of the table. There was a candle in its belly already lit. Flame flickered, yellow-orange, behind its eyes. They appeared to trace every little movement with their eerie glow. Father, at Hela’s direction, had dimmed the rest of the room’s lights, and aside from the raven candelabra, only the fireplace produced enough light to see by.

“Sing, o spirits! Harken, all souls!” Mother intoned bringing the seance to order as she settled the candle in the center of the table and took her seat. “Every year, on this date, we offer a clarion call to James Barnes.”

“Stop it,” Thor interrupted with a sideways glare at Hela who held a meat cleaver threateningly near his head.

“Hela,” Father reprimanded her. Reluctantly she handed over the cleaver, knowing that she should have been paying closer attention. “Kids,” Father chuckled and with a smile encouraged Mother to continue.

“From generation to generation, this is our beacon to the beyond. Let us all close our eyes and join hands.” Mother paused there and waited for everyone to do as she asked of them. Loki waited with Mother, curious to see if everyone would do as she asked. He watched as Hammer curled his lip in distaste at the request, but complied after a moment.

“Hela.”

“‘Let us ransom you from the power of the grave. Tonight, O Death, let us be your plague.’“ Hela recited from memory at Mother’s direction. Both Mother and Grandmama smiled approvingly at Hela’s perfect delivery. The storm outside echoed their feelings with a roll of thunder and a flash of lightning that turned the falling snow into mist. Grandmama waited for the thunder to stop before she resumed the ritual.

“I feel that he is close...James Barnes, gather your strength and knock three times.” Thunder rumbled like a dog barking at her heel. Beneath its distinctive grumble came the anticipated (but still unexpected) sound of the knocker rapping against the door. It was repeated twice more, reverberating through the hallway and underscored by the storm. Mother’s grip clenched reflectively at Loki’s hand, once, twice, three times. And Loki tried to squeeze her hand back in return, infusing the gesture with as much reassurance as he could muster.

“Did ya hear that?” Rocket demanded from his place outside of the circle, perched on top of Groot’s shoulder. Groot turned toward the nearby window. It was one that provided the clearest vantage point of the front door. And just so happened to be a superb place to hide from and spy on whoever might be there. Rocket looked like he wanted to go barreling through the window and drag their erstwhile knocker back through it by their ear. And if he thought he could get away with it, Loki had no doubt that Rocket would have already done so. Loki, however, was having a difficult time believing his own senses. Never before has anything remotely interesting ever happened. Granted, he didn’t care for necromancy. So how could he know that in all the years this ritual had been performed that nothing interesting ever happened. His talents led in another direction, and Loki could not rightly claim what made a seance a success. All he really knew was that he liked the atmosphere it provided. (He and Hela had at least that much in common.)

“Ask again, Mama,” Mother requested sounding as close to desperate as Loki had ever heard her. He’d never known her to express that emotion, to be honest.

“Yes, ask again,” Mr. Hammer encouraged with a smirk. Loki narrowed his eyes at him. He did not care for the other man’s smug enthusiasm one bit, but kept his thoughts to himself for now. After all, Loki was only nine-years-old, and while the adults in his life were in the habit of listening to him, they did so with a grain or two of salt. Besides, Mother had taken great pains to instill in all of them the idea that just because they believed in something did not mean that everyone had to share that same opinion.

“James Buchannan,” Grandmama demanded, raising her voice and making Loki jump. From the sudden tense hold on his hand to his right, Hela had jumped as well. Mother’s grip only tightened further, becoming vise-like in its strength and causing his fingers to lose color from the pressure. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll knock again!”

Right on the heels of her words, three more knocks rattled the door, and Father leapt to his feet in response. His sudden movement sent his chair careening backwards, causing it to smack against the corner of the fireplace. “He’s at the door!” Father yelled, before he ran out of the room.

That released the floodgates. Father’s exclamation sparked a chain reaction and everyone got up from the table and followed in his wake. Their little stampede ended in a bottleneck at the front door. Mother, having worked her way through the small crowd to stand beside Father, squeezed his bicep before reaching forward to open the door. It swung inward, the hinges only complaining minimally, and they all had their first look at their intrepid knocker.

The sight that greeted them was that of a bedraggled man with a mis-buttoned oversized coat that hung sloppily off of his shoulders, and straggly, greasy long hair turned nearly black from the wet snow clinging to the strands. His face was hidden by his hair. And while the coat had done a decent job of disguising his bulk, it could not hide the sheer breadth of his shoulders. He didn’t look healthy, in Loki’s professional opinion. (As a nine-year-old boy who often stabbed his older brother for a lark, he thought himself an expert.)

“Could it be?” Father wondered.

“Is that him?” Rocket demanded.

“I am Groot.”

“Is it possible?” Hammer asked with false sincerity. 

Father stared at Mother. He appeared to catalogue her expression, looking for confirmation of what they all suspected. Mother just continued to stare at the stranger who stared back at her. From the moment the door had opened the man had only had eyes for Mother. Their face-off continued in a tense stalemate until Mother decided to unbend long enough to murmur;

“James.”

“Natalia.”

A stunned silence fell over them, interrupted only by a roll of thunder as a figure stepped out from behind Barnes.

“Hello, I am Doctor Zola.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family reunited?

Soldier had done as he was told and stood in a corner of the room out of the way. He didn’t know, then again he’d never known, why he was made to stand there looking bedraggled and hunched over, while he ‘warmed’ himself by the fire. The only thing he _needed_ to know was that the handler had suggested it. And he never ignored a handler’s suggestion. Particularly, since their ‘suggestions’ were intended to be orders instead. _Especially_ when they came from the doctor-handler. Soldier liked - inasmuch as a person rendered a ‘thing’ could - when the handlers were appeased. That meant that he would be left to his own devices. At least until they remembered him. Could be days uninterrupted or minutes. In the end, the length of time didn’t matter. Soldier learned to cherish any stretch of time he had alone. It had never been worth drawing attention to himself.

The doctor-handler expected him to stay quiet, do as he was told, and never question anything. Soldier was meant to be a well-oiled machine. A machine that performed flawlessly without interference from pesky things like emotion. Emotions, according to the handlers, only gummed up the process, and Soldier had to (was made to) agree. Therefore, the doctor-handler removed them using the calibration process. (Soldier only agreed with the handler’s assessment because he didn’t care for the re-calibration process. He would do, and had done, anything in his power to avoid it.)

It might be a sorry existence, but it was all he knew.

Literally.

Soldier had no recollection of anything prior to four years ago. Sometimes he got flashes of another life, but he could never trust it. The only thing he trusted was once in a moment of lucidity, he’d noticed something had been done to his arm. It was wrong, damaged somehow, the weight of it different, and had never been right since. Soldier harbored this knowledge, used it as a touchstone to remind himself that he hadn’t always been what Hydra and the doctor-handler had made of him. There had been something wrong with his arm, and it had never been right since. It remained the only thing he could point to with any certainty as being true. The doctor-handler told him often that Soldier hadn’t existed until Hydra had breathed life into him and given him a purpose.

Deep down, something inside of him rebelled at that idea. There was buried - almost deep enough to go unnoticed - the memory of goggle-like wire rimmed glasses hovering over his face while buggy eyes studied him like he was a science experiment. If he could completely break Hydra’s conditioning (instead of settling for taking advantage of the few cracks he’d found) he would have acted upon that gut instinct and run. Instead, he’d been left to howl in impotent rage within the silence of his own mind. When he was allowed (able) to remember. That, unfortunately, didn’t happen every day. Moreover, he didn’t _believe_ it.

So he did as he was told and stood in the corner, hunched over and imposing, glaring at the room at large. Ostensibly, it was so that he could dry off after getting caught in the worst of the storm. But truthfully, he had been directed there by the doctor-handler so he would have the best vantage point for surveillance. Soldier would have found his way there on his own without any prodding, but he didn’t protest the order. He had last undergone recalibration just a few hours before the doctor-handler had ordered the break-in at the lawyer’s office. That had been days ago. And so far, he had performed to expectations well enough not to require any further corrections. He steadfastly refused to do **anything** that might prompt _anyone_ to utilize the calibration machine. The machine’s effects had recently begun to wear off in between uses, and he refused to be the reason someone noticed. The longer he went between wipes, the greater chance he had to regain himself. For some reason that was the only fact he would retain after undergoing a wipe. Soldier never understood how he knew, that but it was important for him to remember. Knowing that he gained more freedom by pretending to be enthralled by Hydra became the only thing that helped him retain whatever sanity he had. Relatively speaking; it wasn’t as though he could claim to have any to begin with. He’d prefer to remember who he had been and the life he’d once led, but he would settle for whatever autonomy he managed to steal for himself in the present.

“He was found in Miami, tangled in a tuna net. It was four years ago during Hurricane Arthur,” the doctor explained to his fascinated audience. Soldier feigned disinterest in the conversation in order to cover his very real interest. He didn’t know this story. He knew so few stories about himself or his past that any tidbit should be cherished.

“The sky had been as black as pitch. The waves, they were walls of doom. Can you just imagine?”

A rhetorical question that those gathered answered with eager nods. Soldier barely stopped himself from nodding along, only refraining from doing so by reminding himself that good Soldiers should be seen not heard - one of the handler's favorite lessons.

“They dragged him from the ocean, from the very jaws of oblivion. There were tests, so many tests. A complete psychological profile. At long last, the Florida Department of Fish and Game said, lo and behold, oh, my, oh my, oh my... go tell it on the mountains, he is your brother.”

The red-headed woman (who made his head throb every time he looked at her) watched him closely with her sharp green eyes while the blond man next to her kept a steady eye on the doctor-handler. Soldier wondered at the doctor-handler’s ability to weather the scrutiny; the Soldier barely held onto a stoic facade himself. He wanted to call the woman Natalia, had done so already in fact, and didn’t understand where it had come from. Or what to do about it.

“They gave him to me at Human Services, and together we started the search for his family. Now, after all these years, after who knows what heartache, I have brought him home.”

“That can’t be right,” Leggy Strawberry-blonde muttered under her breath. Obviously the comment was meant for herself but Soldier heard her anyway. And if he had heard her, then others had to have as well. He glared at her. Soldier had seen the woman before, at the lawyer’s office, and he thought her extremely bold now for someone who had been running scared then.

“Ms. Potts I’m surprised by you!” Annoying Lawyer exclaimed. Apparently he had heard her as well. “I would think you’d be pleased by James’ happy return. You know as well as I how long the family has mourned him. This is a miracle!”

“One that waited four years,” she pressed. Soldier would have applauded her for her suspicion if it would not have put him in danger of recalibration. “It all just sounds preposterous.”

“It certainly does,” the blond man agreed with a bright smile before jumping up from his seat next to Natalia. He then slapped Soldier companionably on the back, right next to the seam where the wrong arm joined his shoulder. Even if Soldier had been the type to accept casual touch, he would have jumped at being touched there. He’d only just managed to suppress the involuntary reaction thanks to rigorous training. From the way the other man’s hand flexed and relaxed as it rode out Soldier’s barely perceivable flinch, he surmised that it had been a deliberate test. One disguised as oblivious buffoonery.

“And now you’re back,” the man continued. Risking his neck by giving Soldier a half-hug, resting his head on Soldier’s good shoulder and squeezing the bad one. He then shook Soldier's entire frame before letting go of him and moving back to Natalia’s side.

“Easy as that?” Again the Potts lady pressed the limits of what the handler, and thereby Soldier, would tolerate. He had thought they understood each other, and couldn’t parse why she would question the doctor-handler’s story. Questioning handlers never amounted to anything good for anyone, Soldier in particular.

“Yes! Of course it’s that easy!” Sycophant Lawyer reassured her, his voice cracking in his panic to move on from this topic. “James is back! Back to share the family’s joys, their sorrows, back to share - well, hey - everything!”

He at least appeared to perfectly understand the danger Miss Potts was courting. Soldier would never have given him credit for that much intelligence. Even now he thought it a fluke.

“James Buchanan Barnes, home at last,” Natalia purred. There was both suspicion and malice in her words that promised swift retribution if she were to be proven wrong.

Something jittered through Soldier’s nerves at the hidden threat. The combination of that unfamiliar sensation and the certainty that Natalia could more than deliver on her threat caused him to blurt out “Well, at least ...for now.” He tried not to cringe at that, and avoided looking directly at his handler.

“Only for now?” Natalia asked, and the older brunette woman leaned forward in her wooden rocking chair waiting to hear his reply. Under the combined weight of both women’s stares that jittery feeling intestified. Now this time he fought the urge to look towards the handler, not because he was afraid of what he might see, but to keep the women from noticing any weaknesses in their story. His mission might be to infiltrate this family and find the vault so that their wealth could be appropriated for Hydra’s use - but the primary directive would always be to protect the handler at all cost.

“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re home!” The absurd blond man instructed as if that settled the matter.

“Sorry, but I have to get back,” Soldier replied. Still unsure of where the words were coming from and what prompted him to offer them. “I’ve got a lot of things cooking in the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Clint, the Bermuda Triangle.” Scary Natalia addressed the man he now knew was named Clint.

“Devil’s Island…” Clint replied fondly.

“The Black Hole of Calcutta,” she continued with a sultry purr. Clint grabbed her hand at that and delicately kissed her exposed wrist. She smiled at his adoring expression before explaining their antics away with a smug, “Second honeymoon.”

Soldier looked away from their display on the couch to find the blond haired boy examining the steamer trunk the handler made him bring. For appearances. Possibly also to cause mayhem and murder, but only in case of emergency. As he watched him, the teenage girl handed him a beaker full of some kind of clear liquid and an eyedropper. Soldier surmised that there was acid in the beaker, judging by the way it steamed and bubbled upon contact with the trunk’s lock.

“Dr. Zola, will you be staying too?” the elderly brunette woman inquired. Her gaze pinned the doctor-handler in place, but he did not appear further affected by it. She wasn’t even looking at Soldier, and yet he felt like a bug pinned to a board. The doctor-handler had no fear. Like with Ntalia, Soldier had a nagging sense of something familiar when he looked at this woman. He _should_ know her. But he didn’t.

What he really _should_ do was report a malfunction to the handler so that he could be repaired. And yet, he wasn’t going to do that. He might have no memory, but he liked to think he wasn’t a fool.

“No, no, well, not for very long. I will stay long enough to make sure James adjusts to being home. But most of my time shall be taken up with finding someone to help administer his treatments.”

“Treatments?”

“Yes, yes, just a few. To help with the trauma,” the doctor-handler - who went by the name Zola, at least for now - replied, sounding unbearably smug. Soldier thought he could have done a better job at keeping up appearances and conveyed some genuine concern. But it wasn’t his place to openly criticize a handler. 

By this point, the acid had worked its way through the lock on the trunk and the lid popped up enough to leave it cracked open. The boy reached inside and fished among the contents, his arm disappearing up to his shoulder. A part of Soldier wanted to caution the boy, tell him that sticking his arm where it didn’t belong was a surefire way to lose it. Sure enough, there came an audible snap from the depths of the trunk, and the boy grinned. He withdrew his hand to reveal his fingers crushed by a rusty and ferocious-looking bear trap. Soldier had no idea he had had that in there.

Being clueless appeared to be his forte. Outside of being a purely destructive force and the physical embodiment of violence. 

“Neat,” the boy exclaimed, and his sister grabbed his wrist to study the trap more closely. The near-maniacal smile she wore at her brother’s predicament made Soldier pause. Something told him that he shouldn’t underestimate anyone in this family.

The youngest child kept to himself, watching everyone with a knowing glint in his pale green eyes. He had his arms crossed as he casually lounged on his stomach underneath an antique chair. He looked to be pouting. Soldier had never thought to quantify chewing thoughtfully at one’s lower lip as pouting before, but that was indeed what the boy was doing. This child was different, and seemed to look upon everyone else as if they were fools, while simultaneously appearing unsure of his own conclusions. Soldier waited for the boy to pass judgement. He didn’t have to wait for long.

“Nobody gets out of the Bermuda Triangle, not even for vacation. Everybody knows that.”

“Oh child,” Zola responded condescendingly. “There is so much you do not understand. The human spirit, it is a very hard thing to kill.”

“Even with a chainsaw,” the elderly woman tossed out, appearing to agree with the handler, even as she regarded both Zola and Soldier speculatively. 

“Come now Dr. Zola,” Clint declared, gesturing for him to follow the butler, “Groot will show you to a guest room where you may stay.” He turned to his wife - Natalia and Soldier felt like that name was wrong for some reason - before adding, “Nat, am I right in assuming you’d like to make sure Bucky gets settled in?”

At that, Soldier had no choice but to follow her, and wonder what the hell a ‘Bucky’ was.

** ~***~**~***~**

SHIELD, formerly known as the Strategic Scientific Reserve (or SSR for short), formerly known as the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, formerly known as…. Well, Steve supposed it didn’t matter what they used to call themselves. At the end of the day they remained the exact same kind of conniving bastards he had always disagreed with. Furthermore, it was a shame that in this day and age, Steve still found himself having to deal with them.

That might not be entirely fair of him. The organization did have a brief - **_brief_** \- renaissance resulting in a golden era with Peggy at the helm. There was something, some indefinable quality about Peggy that commanded everyone to do better. But that had happened at the turn of the 20th century. Just a few decades after he, himself, had signed his life away on the dotted line.

Thankfully. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t last very long.

Gabe would remind him how ruthless his new colleagues could be, a fact Steve had seen for himself, but didn't always remember. He wanted to think the best of people, and often ended up disappointed because of that. Gabe was kind enough to warn him before that happened, just to try and spare him some disappointment. Eventually, however, even Gabriel Jones had to admit to a lost cause. The corruption that lingered in the ranks, despite Peggy’s best efforts to stomp it out, wasn’t hard to miss. Not really; not once one considered all of the facts. They were at heart a spy organization. (And Steve had wanted too much to remain a good man, not a perfect spy. Which explained why it took him so long to see what was happening.) While this might be a generalization, it wasn’t too far fetched to claim that the art of the double cross came as second nature to most of their employees. Sure loyalty and respect could be earned and then kept. But it was often cheaper just to buy it outright. Peggy, with Gabe’s help, had done her best to root out as many of the rotten apples as they could. Steve would never, could never, be able to point to a particular moment and claim with any certainty, that there, that’s the moment Hydra infiltrated their ranks.

For all anyone knew, Hydra had been there from the very start. It was like trying to cure cancer. One that had gone undetected for too long, that by the time the disease was noticed it was already too late. Peggy certainly couldn’t pinpoint the moment, and if anyone should be able to, it ought to have been her.

(Steve would like to think that Project Rebirth, at the very least, had been Hydra-free but he couldn’t be positive. And that, that was a kick in the teeth. Especially when he considered everything Erskine had gone through to escape the Nazis’ science division with the secrets of the serum. His intention had been to prevent Hydra from misusing it any further than they already had. If Rebirth had been infiltrated, then Erskine’s efforts had been in vain.)

Weeks slid away, before Steve decided to agree to a meeting. If they were that desperate to call him and attempt yet another empty recruitment pitch, then they truly were out of options. The increased, and frankly _desperate_, attempts to initiate contact implied as much. Otherwise, they would have found a more cooperative patsy. He was nothing if not stubborn. It might as well have been his middle name. (His ma used to joke that Grant was short for Granite because he was as impossible to budge as a block the of the stuff, once he set his mind on something.)

Steve liked to think he’d learned to be flexible. But he knew his own limitations. Forgiving SHIELD and agreeing to become their favorite dancing monkey all over again? Was never going to be in the cards. But he _could_ agree to play nice for a little while. Just to help out Peggy and Gabe. He reserved the right to change his mind, however.

Although first, he had to learn what it was he wanted to say no to. Honestly the phone call had been more to harangue him then debrief him. And it served its purpose well. After all, it got him to agree to a meeting.

Deputy Director Hill was the one who met with him. They used the hidden parking garage beneath headquarters as their rendezvous site. (It annoyed Steve to discover that his passcode was still valid. He had been retired from active service for a handful of years now, and proper protocol procedure dictated that all of his access be revoked the moment the Director was handed his resignation. Steve decided to set that minor grievance aside for now in order to address bigger issues.) It didn’t surprise him that he had been pushed off on Hill to deal with. It had been enough that Director Fury called him directly that first time. They weren’t exactly on speaking terms. Hadn’t been for years now. Steve called it a difference of opinion. At least, when he felt like being charitable about it. Director Fury called it Steve being a stubborn asshole.

Hill had a manila folder with a compiled dossier ready and waiting for him. That had been the first thing she gave him, even forgoing the formality of offering a handshake. He appreciated the efficiency. She gave him a moment to skim through the report before she outlined, in greater detail, what it was they expected from him. As he listened, Steve couldn’t decide if it was a good thing that this mission was so personal or just a disaster waiting to happen. He didn’t care for the fact that he would be required to go in undercover in the private home of a fellow agent. These fellow agents in particular. Although, he supposed it had its benefits. There would always be someone around capable of salvaging the mission if it all went tits up.

With that optimistic assessment he left the parking garage the way he had arrived. This time, however, he took extra precautions to avoid any surveillance cameras. Potential for corruption in the ranks could not go ignored. They had learned that lesson, again, four years ago. That had been the last time Fury had called him in for a ‘favor’. And while they had managed to squash Hydra, again, no one truly believed they had stomped it out entirely. For one thing, none of the major heads had been chopped off in 2014. For another thing, this shit just kept on happening. (Same song different verse.) 

The cyclical nature of Hydra’s multiple resurrections only served to make them all overly paranoid. The latest shenanigans could easily be the work of an old Nazi organization that didn’t know when to quit. Or they could be the work of some new player taking a page out of Schmidt’s playbook. Steve was inclined to believe that it was Hydra trying to make a resurgence again, helped along, no doubt, by a corrupt and incompetent government alreayd inclined to look the other way. Four years of radio silence and time to plan then recoup their personal losses was not an unreasonable time frame. Especially not if they wanted to take advantage of the current political climate. It was practically a new record for Hydra.

Fury and Hill both speculated that a major player had rejoined the game, and Steve was inclined to agree with them. At least on that much. He wasn’t sure if he agreed with their assessment that James Barnes’ return from the dead warranted suspicion. After all, Barnes hadn’t been the only one to pull that particular trick. (This wouldn’t even be the first time Barnes managed it, for fuck’s sake!) Therefore, it was perfectly reasonable to assume that the individual claiming to be James Barnes actually _was_ James Barnes. Furthermore, if he wasn’t, then there were a couple of questions that needed to be answered. The most important ones, however, were: what would possess a stranger to pose as him, and what could he possibly gain from it? 

Evidently that’s where Steve came in. His mission, which he hadn’t so much as chosen to accept as begrudgendly resgin himself to, was to suss out those answers by playing dumb. Good thing then that Hydra and their agents had only ever known him as the Captain. They wouldn’t have any reason to suspect Steve Rogers, registered nurse. Not until it was too late that is.

** ~***~**~***~**

“Bucky Barnes, back from the dead. I’ve got goosebumps,” Clint whispered flirtatiously into Natasha’s hair as they lay in bed together about a week after the miraculous return. 

“I know,” Nat agreed. Her fingers played idly with the buttons on his silk pajamas. She was careful to lean her head harder into his shoulder as she both sought and gave reassurance with the gesture. “He’s home.” 

“Yes.” Again he breathed into her hair leaving a kiss behind. “Now the question is: do we believe what we’ve been told?” 

“Следи за своим ртом,” she snapped at him, affronted that he would even ask. “Of course we don’t! Mama has a plan to help us get to the bottom of all this, figure out what is really going on.”

“Of course she does, why am I not surprised?”

“Because you know better than to doubt the deviousness of the women in this family,” Natasha ventured, tilting her head back far enough so that she could smile winningly up at him.

“Yes, that and I know that between you and Peggy my life is always in good hands.”

“That’s a lot of trust to place in us любимая.”

“It’s well founded,” he reassured her. “And Natasha,” he waited a moment until she hummed in reply before he continued, “that’s twice now you’ve used Russian.”

Her answering grin is vicious with its unfulfilled promise. Clint didn’t hesitate then to kiss her.

** ~***~**~***~**

Uncle Bucky had been back for a few weeks now and Loki wasn’t impressed. The man acted more like an automaton than a living human being. Not to say that there was anything wrong with that - Cousin Stark was more clockwork than person these days - but he _was_ nothing at all like what Loki had been expecting. After being regaled with tales about a somewhat gruff man with a not-so-hidden heart of gold, who was both soft spoken and in possession of a wicked sense of humor with a knack for finding trouble, Loki thought Uncle Bucky would be more, well, just more. The fact that he was disappointed by his erstwhile uncle and the man’s miraculous return... Well, upset just barely began to cover how Loki felt about that.

Barnes, as the children came to call him behind the backs of their parents and Grandmama, barely interacted with anyone - or anything, really - outside of the few social situations Dr. Zola forced him into. He avoided Mother and Grandmama both, as if they were the physical embodiment of the plague. (Which was a cool idea and Loki wondered if it could be achievable through magic until he remembered how much Barnes’ avoidance appeared to upset them). And he just barely tolerated Father’s presence. Furthermore, Barens didn’t seem to realize that he was an uncle. Or even know what children were for. The only members of the household he appeared to be the least bit interested in were Rocket and Groot. But then again, they were Rocket and Groot. Moreover, Loki couldn’t find any fault with his fascination.

He _could,_ and frequently **did,** blame Barnes for the way Mother had begun to look pinched around the corners of her eyes. Hela and Thor joined him in laying the blame for that at Barnes’ feet. And, truthfully, something had to give, and soon. Otherwise Loki would never recover from the shock of agreeing so much with his siblings. He preferred it when they were at odds with each other, only occasionally teaming up only to play a prank on the odd one out before returning to faked animosity. It kept everyone on their toes. Their own interpersonal game of cutthroat Euchre. Never a dull moment, might as well have been Loki’s credo.

He felt, and Loki didn’t think he was mistaken in his assumption, that a great deal of Barnes’ reluctance to get close to anyone could be laid at the feet of Dr. Zola. And Loki didn’t have a clue as to how he could fix that. Therefore, he did what he always did when he had a problem but wasn’t certain about the solution - he talked it out. First order of business was to consult his siblings after speaking to himself proved useless, before Loki could determine if he needed Grandmama’s help or not. He didn’t want to bring this problem to either Mother or Father, and since he couldn’t, _**wouldn’t**_, do that, Grandmama was his best and only, option. (Sometimes he thought Grandmama should be the only option; she had a knack for fixing things.)

Loki found them in the attic tinkering with the old electric chair. That chair had lingered in disrepair for longer than he could remember. Looking it over now, he could see where some of the corrosion had been stripped away around the manacles intended to hold down some unfortunate fool’s calves. The padded restraints at both wrists and ankles had recently been replaced. Judging by the very little wear on the leather as opposed to the cracked and half-rotten restraints it used to have, it’d had had an upgrade. The cord connecting the chair to the closest outlet was still coiled and frayed with only a few patches of electrical tape to show any attempt at being safety-conscious, while still posing as an inherent risk as either a trip or fire hazard.

He sauntered into the space, and assuming an air of disinterest, watched as Hela meddled with the electrical wiring into the back of the chair. Thor had moved on from polishing the head gear to playing with an oversized metal hammer that Father kept in the attic that only Thor seemed capable of lifting. So far, they hadn’t appeared to have noticed Loki, but he knew better than to assume that was the case. He might have been the most observant of his siblings, but neither Hela nor Thor were unobservant slouches. They just had to be interested enough in order to bother paying attention. Both had invested a considerable amount of time and effort into making sure that their youngest sibling was healthy and happy, despite appearances to the contrary. They liked to pretend to ignore him because sentiment, on occasion, was hive-producing in all three of them. (It had to have been a legacy from their biological parents.)

Loki waited a beat before announcing his presence and forcing their hand by asking, “Do you think that’s really Uncle Bucky?” He already knew his own opinion on the matter, but he wanted to hear theirs as well. Not that it would do much to make him change his own mind.

“Father says so,” Thor answered swinging the hammer just to hear it whistle and the air around it crackle with static shock. He spoke as if having Father’s approval was reason enough to dismiss any doubts, when in actuality it was just the opposite. Father approving of anything was _always_ reason for concern.

“Mother’s not sure,” Hela countered, stepping back from the switches and gesturing towards the electric chair with a sweeping hand. “Thor sit in the chair.”

“Why?”

“So we can play a game.”

“Oh, well, why not then? I do like games.” Thor dropped the hammer, which rang like a bell as it landed standing upright on its square head, and happily sat himself down. Loki noticed a few hairline fractures in the wood flooring surrounding the hammer. It really was a wonder that the thing didn’t punch through the attic floor thanks to Thor’s carelessness.

“What game?” Loki asked, only partially interested in the answer.

“It’s called ‘Is there a God?’,” Hela answered, favoring both of her brothers with a flat look. Loki could clearly see a viciously delighted glint in her icy eyes that did not bode well for Thor or his chances. He smirked in anticipation.

“Alright, say I agree with you both and he’s not Uncle Bucky,” Thor continued, either oblivious of or choosing to ignore his sibling’s current malicious intentions, “then who is he?”

“Somebody else,” Loki answered, and while he refrained from saying so, the ‘duh’ was very much implied. That, and his eye roll helped convey how he felt about Thor’s question. Thor grunted at that. Although the noise could have been in response to Hela re-tightening the restraints on his wrists.

“It has to warm up,” she informed him as she continued to make minor and not entirely necessary adjustments.

“Why?”

“So it can kill you.”

“Oh, yes, I knew that.” Thor attempted to reassure her with a nod.

“It won’t kill him,” Loki scoffed. Honestly, with Thor’s natural affinity for all things electrocuted, the most the chair could do to him would be to give him a zap. Like a static shock.

“We shall see,” Hela cooed, petting the wood of the chair fondly.

“Wanna bet?” Loki teased her and she scowled at him for the offer. That told Loki everything he needed to know about how her little game would play itself out. But he still moved closer just so he would be in a prime position to watch and confirm his own hypothesis.

“Why would Dr. Zola lie?” Thor asked keeping their conversation on track.

“Because he can,” Hela snapped. “Do you have a last request?”

“Can I have ice cream?”

“No,” both Hela and Loki answered him and Thor sighed mightily as if this all was a grave injustice.

“Fine, just get on with it then,” he told Hela.

“Dr. Zola lied because he wants something,” Loki spoke over him, thinking out loud. This, this was the part that truly bothered him. He couldn’t for the life of him think of anything that the doctor might want so badly that he would pretend to have found their uncle.

“We should investegate,” Thor decided watching curiously as Hela moved back towards the switches.

“Children - what are you doing?” At the sound of the new voice the three of them whipped their heads around towards the staircase to find Mother standing almost on the top step. One hand rested on the railing, the other at her hip.

“We’re going to electrocute him,” Hela told her, recovering first and sticking with the obvious story. She and Loki shared a look between them, both realizing that Mother could have overheard their entire conversation, and neither one of them wanted that. Each for their own reasons, of course.

“Not right now, I want you to come downstairs and meet the new nurse.”

“Mother….” Hela wheedled.

“I said no.”

“Please….” This time both Thor and Loki pleaded with her, and she began to relent.

“Oh… all right,” she agreed folding her arms akimbo, her blood-red painted nails visible where they rested in the crook of each elbow. Without needing further encouragement Hela flipped the master switch, and the three of them watched - with various levels of glee and interest - as the chair came to life, Thor caught in the middle of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Translate was used for the few Russian phrases/words in this chapter. If anyone wants to correct it, please let me know!
> 
> Следи за своим ртом = Watch your mouth  
любимая = Beloved


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A suspicious new character is introduced and a villian reveiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features artwork by verbalatte

Steve had been surprised by how nervous he’d felt when he’d gone to ‘interview’ for the position. When there was absolutely no _need_ for him to be. It wasn’t like a Hydra operative could reliably recognize him. These days when he was involved in any altercation he actually wore the costume. Not just the parts of it he liked. A requirement that SHIELD didn’t hesitate to reinforce with an iron fist and he found himself following with minimal complaints.

Besides, they couldn’t compare; Hydra had barely known about Steve or the Captain during the war because Phillips had forbidden Peggy from allowing him in the field. By the time the Nazi science division did learn of, at least, Steve’s alter-ego, it had been too late. 

The reason Phillips had been so adamant about keeping Steve out of the field was because he had been the sole recipient of Erskine’s serum. And it had looked liked Steve would remain the only recipient. Abraham had survived the attack on the lab, but Howard’s equipment was destroyed and the few vials of the serum Erskine already had prepared were lost.

Meanwhile there had been an effort made to erase both Steve’s military record and any record of his life prior to agreeing to being a human lab rat to hide the success of Project Rebirth. In order to safeguard military secrets he had to become a ghost. Phillips edict, however, was a double-edged sword. It kept the secret of the serum safe at the expenses of hamstringing Steve and any effectiveness the super-soldier could’ve had on the Western Front. They wouldn’t even allow him to become a shill for the propaganda machine.

Grasping at straws trying to find some way to use him, Peggy trained him as a spy. A wasted effort according to the brass, because Steve couldn’t lie to save his life. Peggy and Erskine both knew differently but pressure from above insisted that she “wash her hands of him and stop wasting everyone's time, there was a war to be won.” Having been pushed into playing politics and needing to look like she’d appeased her superiors, Peggy placed Gabe in charge of Steve during the war to see if Jones could “make something of him” as she had explained it to Phillips and the brass. Steve, for his part, had been happy to be mistaken for nothing more than a blunt instrument and used accordingly. The husband-and-wife team had recognized that desire in him and set out to capitalize on it for their own advantage. They understood, without needing to have it spelled out for them, that the biggest lie Steve ever told was that he couldn’t tell a lie. They covered for him and allowed him to maintain the fiction while countermanding Phillips and making use of Steve’s talents in the field.

Steve had always known how to play into others' expectations of him. To take advantage of them so that no one would look beyond than what they’d already assumed. Assumptions made assess out of everyone involved, but only a fool wouldn’t see the strategic value in them. Steve tried not to be foolish.

Before Erskine’s serum, everyone had only seen a sickly little matchstick boy who barely weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. Someone they assumed wasn’t good for anything - too sick, too small, too much of a burden in **every** way to contribute in _any_ meaningful way. Steve played into that assumption because it meant he was left alone to accomplish the things he _**knew**_ he could. And didn’t need or want anyone's approval for. Who would ever look at scrawny, sick, half-starved Steve Rogers, who didn’t know how to walk away from a fight, and believe that he’d been running booze for the Westies over in Hell’s Kitchen just to pay his mother’s medical bills? No one, that’s who. 

After he’d gotten the serum and was suddenly healthy, tall, and all musclely - essentially everyone’s (including his own) wet dream - people looked at him and saw a big blond man that they assumed he was just a brainless soldier. They mistook his lingering awkwardness from adjusting to a new wingspan and different proportions and thought him clumsy and slow, both in mind and body. Some poor dumb schmuck only good for picking up heavy things and setting them down again. So that’s exactly what he gave them.

It tended to frustrate the hell out of people when Steve refused to be led around like a lost puppy. The tool they saw him as only required a guiding hand to prove itself useful. A tool that refused to be used, however, put one hell of a kink into any operation. There were few things as satisfying for him as that moment when he pulled the rug out from underneath them and they realized what a costly mistake had been made.

(There was a reason he had earned a reputation as a tactical genius. He might have (mostly) been kept _physically_ out of the field thanks to Phillips ultimatums, but that didn’t mean Steve’s talents went entirely unused. Peggy had been known to confer with him when it came to drawing up the Commando’s next mission before she would take their plans to Barnes for final approval and additional tweaking. As the person with boots on the ground, Barnes knew best if they could be effective or not. It was a mark of pride for Steve that his plans often required minimal tweaking, if any, before Barnes proclaimed them suitable. That had been Peggy’s way of getting him out in the field. Gabe would simply sneak Steve out of whatever lab the brass currently had him held up in, and have him assist with his latest trip behind enemy lines.)

Steve took advantage of his nerves to make Zola think that he was adrift and searching for something to believe in. And if his credentials as a nurse didn’t appeal enough to the “good” doctor for him to want to hire Steve, then the fact that he fit the criteria of a potential new recruit should. He’d had several interviews in which to lay the groundwork. Soon enough he had Zola convinced that Steve was the perfect new recruit - a young man, physically imposing but lost without direction and in need of guidance in this fast-paced world. A world that far too often left someone with simpler wants and values behind in the dust. Zola would be a fool not to want to hire him. Steve made sure to leave the man with the impression that he was desperate for a chance to prove himself worthy of his cause. Even knowing that he would never, _could_ never, align himself with the organization beyond what was needed for the mission, it didn’t stop him from feeling dirty. Like, morally. If it was possible to bleach one’s soul, Steve would do so in a heartbeat, just from association.

He might not have received any concrete intel that confirmed that the doctor was working for Hydra, but Steve had no problems assuming the worst of Dr. Zola. Especially when Steve took into account that intelligence gathered during the war had that name plastered all over it. Moreover, there was that failed mission in the Alps meant to capture a Dr. Zola before it got derailed by Barnes’ presumed death. Also a mission in the 80’s that again involved capturing a known Hydra scientist with the same name. All of which could have been coincidental. BUT one was an incident, two a coincidence, and three made a pattern. This also heavily implied that Armin Zola was nearly immortal. But then look at Margaret Carter, hell, look at Steve himself. Immortality certainly wasn’t all that rare of a commodity these days.

Therefore, Steve went into this mission under the working assumption that this particular Dr. Zola was Hydra. In his mind the real unknown here was the stranger claiming to be Barnes, back from the dead. If he could help Carter determine whether or not her son truly had _finally_ come home in from the cold, then Steve would consider this operation a success. Given that scenario, he’d happily hand over any information that could incriminate Zola before again wiping his hands clean of SHIELD, Hydra, the whole bloody intelligence community. Hopefully for the last fucking time.

_Ha, ha, ha, talk about wishful fucking thinking._

In the end, Steve was called back (for the fifth time, but who was counting) and informed that Dr. Zola had spoken to the family. At last. Moreover, that they had agreed to hire him on a probationary basis with the stipulation that their relation, who he would be caring for, approved of him. Ultimately Steve knew Zola’s word would be the final say he wasn’t too concerned by that. Still, he wasn’t especially thrilled about having one more hurdle to overcome. He just wanted the mission to be over. On principle it gave Steve the heebie-jeebies to get into a car with Zola with the expectation that he could trust that the man to safely take him anywhere. Whether or not he was the same Hydra scientist didn’t really matter. The name Zola carried with it a bad reputation.For the life of him Steve couldn’t decide what was more torturous, sharing close quarters with the unctuous fellow or having to maintain character while stuck in close quarters with the little toad.

It helped that Steve actually had attended nursing school, so wasn’t playing a part here, he was just utilizing skills he hadn’t gotten to use before. Back in 2011 when SHIELD had “rescued” and defrosted him, Steve realized the extent that even Peggy had come to view him as a tool and decided to cut ties with the organization (for the first time). He figured it was time to honor his ma’s legacy instead of chasing after the vague recollections of a father he’d never known. Attempting to martyr himself for a righteous cause had only ever gotten him royally shafted, changed him so much that Steve hardly recognized himself anymore. He thought pursuing a nursing degree would help him to reconnect with if not his roots, then certainly some of his core values.

It was that reminder that carried him through the tedious small talk and slyly insedious attempts to feel out Steve’s receptiveness to following Nazi dogma. He’d never suffered through a more painful car ride before (including the one with Carter when she’d taken him on an impromptu tour of all the back alleys he’d been beaten up in as she’d escorted him to Erskine’s hidden lab.

Thankfully the driver soon deposited them outside of a set of wrought iron gates that were pitted with age and old rust spots blocking the bottom of a long drive. Steve had expected the man to pull into the driveway, there was at least twenty feet before the gate; plenty of space for a car to park and turn around. But instead the driver had parked Zola’s ridiculous status symbol on the curb just to the left of the drive and in front of a fire hydrant. Steve frowned, but quickly hid it behind an awed expression at a glance at the estate beyond the fencing. Since it was now the middle of February and there had been a stretch of unseasonably warm weather, there was hardly any snow left on the ground, and only minimal sludge for them to wade through as they exited the car and made their way up the drive.Steve regretted he had worn nursing clogs, which while incredibly comfortable when working long days, did absolutely nothing to prevent the elements from soaking his feet. The good doctor appeared to be just as unlucky in his choice of footwear, if the grumbling he kept overhearing was any indication.

He couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about that, however, since there had been no need for them to trudge the twenty feet from the curb to the gate. Zola could have made his driver park closer. Now though, Zola was the author of his own misery. Steve figured the man was owed at least a little based on what misery he’d caused others.

As they got closer to the gate Steve noticed a decorative scarecrow dangling over the spiked fenceposts. It was an extremely realistic replica of old weathered deer bones that had its forelimbs folded akimbo over the top railing and woven in between the evenly placed triangular spikes. Someone had dressed it up as a traditional scarecrow, complete with flannel shirt and straw. What made this one unique, aside from it being a deer skeleton, were the layers of additional decorations for the holidays that must have passed since it had initially been put up. Steve guessed that it had started out as a Halloween decoration since the flannel was purple and orange. But there was also a turkey feather stuck in the brim of its straw hat, a string of snowflake-shaped fairy lights draped over the antlers and shoulders of the skeleton, and heart shaped jewelry that made Steve confident in his guess. There was the large decorative heart made out of additional replica bone hanging from the center of the gate.

A raven perched on the outer curve of the right side of the heart. The bird’s secondary feathers were dyed a vibrant pink that peaked out from beneath its primary feathers like lace peeking out from underneath a dressing gown. At first, Steve assumed that the raven was fake, just like the bone it rested on. But he was quickly proven wrong when the raven turned its head to regard him steadily with one beady eye before cawing and taking off. Steve suppressed the reflective urge to jump; he wanted to appear unaffected. A quick glance to his left showed that Zola was too busy attempting to avoid stepping in the few remaining slush puddles to notice anything. In fact the man didn’t bother to pay attention to anything other than the possible ruin of his patent leather loafers until they had reached the wicket built into the larger gate. Once there, Zola glared at the worn ironwork as if it were a personal assault before snarling;

“You vill open now.” The man’s Swiss German accent growing thicker with his aggravation. After a moment the wicket swung open with an accompanying gust of wind causing the gate to groan. Dr. Zola stomped through it immediately. Steve could’ve sworn that it sounded more rankled then rusted, but then he was too busy trying to spot the intercom Zola had to have used to get the wicket open. Steve still hadn’t noticed the device by the time Zola turned back towards him and motioned for Steve to do the same with an impatient hand. Not wanting to give the man any reason to fire him before he’d even officially started, Steve didn’t hesitate to follow as swiftly as possible. As he stepped under the arch of the wicket he had the strange sensation of being observed by a curious gaze. That feeling only got stranger when the wicket closed behind him. Steve would have sworn that it was close enough to caress the shoulder of his leather bomber jacket.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor he didn’t dwell on the sensation, and followed Dr. Zola up the remainder of the drive towards the manor’s front door. The place had rundown Victorian Gothic written all over it. But it wasn’t the complete disarray of a home that had been abandoned and left for nature to reclaim at her leisure. Instead it had the air of a place that had been deliberately neglected purely for the aesthetic. The wisteria trialed artfully up the building and over the glass of the conservatory. A couple of the windows were purposefully left boarded up for verisimilitude. There were even a few panes of stained glass knocked out randomly from the front door and the lancet-arched windows.

The door swung open before Dr. Zola could knock and Steve only got a brief glimpse of the person behind it before he was ushered further into the house by the weight of the doctor's hand at the crook of his elbow. For such a (relatively) diminutive man he had a surprisingly firm grip and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet in an effort to keep up. He was dragged along into what he assumed was the family’s parlor where he was greeted by the sight of Agents Barton and Romanov sitting squarely in the middle of a chaise sofa. They were flanked by two teens, a raven-haired girl who looked to be at least fifteen or sixteen years old, and an adolescent blond boy, who both wanted to look like they’d rather be anywhere else but weren’t doing a good enough job of hiding their curiosity. In one of the wingback chairs sat Carter herself with a younger year old brunet boy lounging against the arm. In between the sofa and chair, blocking Steve’s view of a spindly antique side table, stood a disheveled imposing brute of a man that he assumed to be the so-called imposter James Buchanan Barnes. Steve was taken aback by the sheer heft of the man’s shoulders and the expanse of his chest in his tight rusty-red henley. Steve’s eyes drifted down slowly, and hopefully unobtrusively, noticing the man’s trim waist and the disturbingly tight stretch of denim over thick thighs. He was reminded of a saying from one of the myriad of social media sites Gabe always seemed to be on these days; _thick thighs saved lives_. Steve couldn’t help but think that this man had thighs of betrayal.

Feeling the telltale heat of a blush rising high on his cheek bones and the tips of his ears, Steve cursed his Irish heritage and hoped like hell that it went unnoticed even as he redirected his gaze to the stranger’s face. The man had managed to find the most shadowy part of the room he could without actually lurking in a corner. It left the lower half of his face obscured so that the most Steve could make out was the cut of a sharp cheekbone. He wore his brown hair middling length and scraggly, as if he was still getting a handle on what a hairbrush was. The loose strands did a good job of masking the rest of his features aside from the piercing light of his blue-grey eyes.

The man before him wasn’t anything like what Steve had been expecting. For some foolhardy reason when he’d heard that there was an imposter claiming to be James Barnes, Steve had pictured someone imitating the perfectly coiffed and cockily composed young man from Barnes’ service photo. Or even the weathered weary man that Steve had only briefly glimpsed once when he was leaving Phillips’ command tent. 

Instead he’d been presented with this tank of a man whose eyes looked like spent ammunition. He looked haunted by what Steve couldn’t even begin to guess.

Steve had dressed the part of a nurse - partially to appear professional but mostly in a bid to remind himself that this was not intended to be a combat mission but infiltration; he was meant to be playing a role - and wore the traditional nurse’s uniform of white scrubs. For the most part. He had improvised by adding a long sleeved dove gray henley underneath the white short sleeve and had forgone the matching white pants for a pair of belted navy chinos. And right now he was grateful that he’d had the forethought to do so. It helped to keep him focused on why he was there. That, and to provide a handy excuse for the sudden desire he felt to wrap the stranger up in his arms and protect him from any further harm that might ever befall him.

Steve scrunched up his nose, wondering where that thought had come from, while trying to banish it at the same time. He quickly refocused on what was going on in front of him. He tuned back just in time to catch the tail end of Dr. Zola rattling off his nursing credentials, and to catch both “James” and the Black Widow pursuing him with lazy judgmental stares. He was used to it from Natasha. She was under the mistaken impression that it made him uncomfortable and he didn’t think it worth the effort to disabuse her of that notion. It did, however, make him more than a little bit nervous to be scrutinized so thoroughly by Barnes, simply because Steve didn’t know the man. He had no grasp of his character outside of stories Carter, Gabe, and later Natasha had shared with him.

Only long familiarity with Natasha and her often terrible sense of humor allowed Steve to catch the gleam of mischief in her green eyes. Clint wasn’t even bothering to hide his own amusement, and the less that could be said about Peggy the better. Steve hadn’t even dared to look at her. He idly wondered if Gabe would suddenly show up and critique his ability to blend in. (Knowing the family like he did, Steve realized it was only a matter of time). Their children appeared to be taking this whole sham of a first meeting seriously, at least. But then again, for them it truly was exactly what it seemed to be. If Steve had known he would have to perform directly under their noses in their own home he would have told Fury to find someone else. While he could understand the logic of having an objective third party step in to assess the situation, and the veracity of the stranger’s claim, he really wished they hadn’t picked him.

** ~***~**~***~**

In Barnes’ (as the Soldier was attempting to get used to calling himself) opinion, Nurse Rogers was a golden-haired Adonis and a world class klutz. The nurse was built like an inverted triangle, with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world, or one tired soldier, and a slim waist that was almost delicate if not for the way it supported all of that muscle. The curve of his back alone simple begged to differ. Particularly with the way it dragged the eye downwards toward the plush swell of a firm backside.

The man’s face was just as distracting. His hair was styled so that the top was long, and flopped in a manner designed to cause Barnes’ fingers to twitch with the annoying urge to fix it, into his doe-like blue eyes, while the back and sides were cut short, like they had been shaved and had started to grow out. And those eyes, no man who looked to be 240 pounds of muscle should have doe-like ocean blue eyes. Ocean blue eyes surrounded by eyelashes so long they left shadows on his cheekbones. There was a bump in his noise from where it had to have been set wrong after being broken. It looked like a noise made for punching. The less that Barens thought about Rogers’ lips the better.

Barnes discreetly tossed his head to rid it of such distracting thoughts, more than a little concerned by the way his eyes appeared to have gone cross-eyed as he tried to track the man’s backside. He really hoped that the doctor-handler hadn’t noticed his lack of attention. Ever since Soldier had been left with this family he had been experiencing strange episodes of malfunction that he could not reasonably explain away. He prayed that the doctor didn’t think to question him about it because Solder - Barnes - wouldn’t be able to provide him with a satisfying answer. Not that that would matter for very much longer. Barnes was aware enough to know that the glimpses of dreams (or where they memories?) and hints of emotions other than ruthless determination would soon be a thing of the past; the nurse was nothing more than a new handler. Someone who could remain at the house and watch him twenty-four-seven without garnering suspicion from the surprisingly astute family while Barnes carried out his mission to locate and acquire their hidden fortune. And like with every handler that had come before him, the nurse would be given the means and all of the excuses he would ever need to overwrite Soldier whenever he saw fit. Barnes had been out of cryo-freeze and away from his handlers long enough now to recall that within the doctor's briefcase was stored the portable recalibration machine.

No need for a clunky repurposed dental chair when the twenty-first century provided such novelties as personal laptops.

Therefore it was in Barnes’ best interest to prolong this tedious tour of the Barton-Romanov estate for as long as he could because he knew the second it was finished the doctor would be show the nurse how to fine tune his favorite machine to perfection. In that regard, Nurse Rogers’ klutziness worked in Barnes’ favor. For all that, it didn’t make a lick of sense and was starting to drive him more than a little batty. How could a man who looked like that could lack any awareness of his own body? Barnes couldn’t fathom how a man who moved with the natural grace and stealth of a predator (seconded only to him) managed to either bump into or knock over at least one thing in every room they passed through. It had to have been done purposefully, but why? It was as if the man had just recently and suddenly grown into his extra inches and didn’t know what to make of them. But that impression was immediately contradicted by the way the nurse confidently sidestepped his way around an obstacle presented by the house itself or constructed by the children. Well, all but one.

Like the trick step near the top of the staircase leading to the attic that the children had rigged. Barnes knew by now to carefully steer the doctor around it, but had forgotten to warn the nurse. One of the kids had split one step in half about a quarter of the way down from the top of the staircase so that, going up, the right side it was inverted, and the left side laid like a normal step. The intrepid carpenter had then taken a piece of heavy canvas and first painted it so it matched the lumber grain of the rest of the step and then used the exact same wood stain. Once it had been lightly tucked into place, it blended in perfectly and created a pothole that at worst caused one to bark their shins (depending on how fast they were traveling). Since the majority of the household knew to avoid that particular step, hardly anyone ever encountered the danger anymore.

Nurse Rogers walked right into it and promptly fell forward finally catching himself on his elbows three steps ahead of where his one foot was stuck. He ended up giving Natasha, who had insisted on following them for the majority of the useless tour, a long an unobstructed view of his backside as he tried to right himself. A view she did not hesitate to take advantage of. Barnes found himself clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw had begun to ache with the strain. He couldn’t put his thumb on the reason why, but seeing her so obviously ogle the nurse set Barnes’ teeth on edge. It was just preposterous! Both confused and annoyed, Barnes found himself rolling up the sleeves of his henley out of a twitchy need to _just_ **do** something.

“How kind of you to show Mr. Rogers around James,” Natasha teased him with a suggestive drawl. It made him think that she knew something about the man he was pretending to be. That it was something his own body was already responding too, despite Soldier's cluelessness. 

“Yes, how kind.” Dr. Zola latched onto the smirking hell beast disguised as a woman speaking like a terrier latching onto a rat. “Moreover, I am quite certain that Mr. Rogers will have plenty of time to familiarize himself with the house in the near future. I, however, have other patients to see today, which is why I went through the trouble of hiring Nurse Rogers.”

Zola dug his fingers into Barnes’ flesh arm to emphasize his point and Barnes only held back his wince thanks to extensive practice. 

“Come, it’s past time that we returned to your room, James, so that I might review with Mr. Rogers the minutiae if his duties.” Using Soldier’s arm as a convenient handle Zola turned them around on the stairs and walked them past the still-recovering nurse and his hostess.

For a second, Barnes thought he was seeing double, thanks to a minor case of whiplash. But no. Both Rogers and Natasha had frowned independently of each other’s influence and, yet, oddly synchronized enough that the expression had appeared and disappeared like the ‘wave’ at a sporting event. Only this one wasn’t meant to be a sign of encouragement, but rather puzzlement, at best. At worst didn’t bear thinking about. At worst meant Barnes had been discovered as a fraud, regardless what those half-formed shades and shadows he thought he dreamt about told him.

In that moment, with that flimsy reminder that this could actually be his family, Barnes wasn’t ashamed to admit that he wished he had been on the other side of it. But then Rogers righted himself, escaped the trick step and smiled beatifically. And Barnes saw that desire fading away like fog faced with the morning sun. It was better for Soldier in the long run if he learned to let go of it now; he’d never be allowed to keep it.

** ~***~**~***~**

It was harder than Steve had anticipated to act like a goof while under the watchful eyes of Peggy, Natasha, and Clint and not slip up. He’d have to give Clint more credit than he did; consistantly pretending to play dumb and awkward wasn’t that easy. Although Steve was willing to admit that for Clint it was like a chicken and an egg type situation, difficult to say which came first. Was he pretending or was that just Clint?

Things were made more awkward by Natasha insisting on accompanying them throughout the tour of the mansion that Barnes was leading. Steve knew she only came along to witness something she could tease him about. And she struck paydirt when he stepped right onto that prank stair. Judging by the byplay that occurred over his backside, she was an equal opportunity offender when it came to teasing. As if Steve hadn’t already known that.

Finally, Steve was led to the room that would be his during his stay at the Barton-Romanov estate. 

The bedroom was tucked up underneath the attic stairs and shaped like a coffin. The exterior wall was taken up by a bay window, and directly beneath the stairs what had once been a cupboard was converted into a crowded ensuite bath with an old black damask curtain in place of a door. The rest of the space was furnished by older but still sturdy mismatched furniture that must have seen its heyday decades ago.

Weeks of unnecessary interviews and a simpering clueless act he’d decided to put himself through were about to pay off. Steve felt it, hovering over him like a change in barometric pressure. The moment Zola finally managed to get them alone with Barnes it happened. The doctor slammed the room’s wooden door with its peeling finish directly in Natasha’s face just to guarantee their privacy. Steve _highly_ doubted that that had been unintentionally done, despite Zola’s contrite expression.

“Now Steven,” Dr. Zola began, and Steve worked hard at hiding his wince. The way Zola insisted on using his full name, instead of the diminutive ‘Steve’, reminded him of Abraham. Only where Erskine’s inflection had been pure fondness, Zola’s was snide. The man’s manner made it clear that he believed himself to be superior to everyone he met. The last thing Steve wanted was his enforced interaction with this scientist to corrupt the memories of a man who he had always revered as a father figure. The list of reasons for Steve’s devotion to Erskine was endless. Abraham had been a saving grace during a time in Steve’s life when he needed one most, and a mentor when it would have been all too easy for Steve to get swallowed up by the American war machine. His memory of Abraham continued to serve as a valuable touchstone whenever Steve felt like he was close to losing himself all over again. Steve would hate to have anything or anyone taint it. –

“Now Steven,” Zola repeated noticing his brief moment of inattentiveness. The scientist’s voice sharpened and his eyes narrowed at being denied the focus of everyone’s attention. “I want you to promise me that you will never treat Mr. Barnes under any of the following conditions: outside the privacy of his or your quarters or in the presence of a family member. Additionally, you must agree not to allow anyone other than yourself, and this includes Mr. Barnes, to handle the machine.” At that he lifted the briefcase that held the specially designed medical equipment Steve was meant to learn how to operate and slowly tapped his fingers along its top one by one for emphasis.

A signet ring on his pinky finger hit both the clasp and the hard edge of the case with a sharp clack and Steve noticed how Barnes twitched away from the noise. Zola made it seem like he had all the time in the world to wait on Steve’s reply, but they all knew it was just a ploy. Steve had seen enough of the man to already realize that patience wasn’t his strong suit – why wait when he could just take?

The fact that Zola was prepared to go through all the trouble for the long con was one of the reasons why Steve was willing to bet that Barnes here was the genuine article. Zola appeared to be the type of man who only appreciated the virtue of patience when he got to be the puppeteer dangling everyone else at the end of his string. It was a trait of Hydra’s plans Steve had noticed back during the war; it had always been easier to tell when something had been planned by either Schmidt or Zola. After declaring the Science Division’s independence from the rest of the Reich, Schmidt tended to favor the direct approach, while Zola had wanted to stick to more cloak and dagger affairs whenever he bothered to leave the lab. This covert approach was what the modern incarnation shared. It was yet another clue that convinced Steve that Carter and her family were the focus of a Hydra plot. Even beaten and broken, that particular viper was still proving to be annoyingly venomous.

“I promise,” Steve eventually agreed. Hating himself for saying whatever he needed to make Zola trust him. There was never going to be enough soap in the world to make him feel clean again.

“Excellent,” Zola said and smiled. The dim lighting in the room caught his Coke-bottle lenses at just the right angle to cause them to flash creepily. Steve felt like he was one more little white lie away from selling his soul to the devil.

Zola turned his back on both Steve and Barnes and set the briefcase down on a nearby vanity. He popped the case’s locks and flipped open the lid to reveal a laptop and the attachments for a small biofeedback machine. There was also a blood pressure cuff. Steve recognized the components of the biofeedback machine thanks to a rotation in a neurology clinic. It was a therapy technique that trained an individual to improve their health by controlling certain bodily processes that normally occur involuntarily. Through its use a patient could begin to associate their body’s response with a certain physical function.

Steve had the sinking suspicion as he watched Zola almost lovingly set down the laptop and remove the connecting leads, that this particular machine was not intended to be used for the betterment of Barnes’ health. Judging from the way Barnes’ body slowly began to tense without him seeming to even be aware of it, James knew it too. 

“Tonight I am going to let you in on the secret of how the century has been shaped. My work with Hydra has been a gift to mankind, and like the spoilt ungrateful children that they really are, they never once thanked me after all I have done.” Zola began to monologue even as he fiddled his way through the laptops start-up sequence. Steve hadn’t anticipated having confirmation of Zola’s affiliations so conveniently handed over to him. 

“But it doesn't matter. Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos, and my machine here will give it the push it needs.” At that he paused momentarily to lovingly caress the various hook-ups of the biofeedback machine, before he continued to connect the EEG leads to the hardware block, which he had already connected to the laptop. 

Zola then imperiously snapped his fingers and pointed to the bench seat in front of the vanity. There was a clear expectation that James would follow Zola’s instructions like some well-trained dog and sit down without needing to be told. And Steve bit his lip to keep himself from saying something he would regret. “We were there once before.” Zola resumed his ode to Hydra’s greatness as he fitted a skull cap to James’ head that featured a color-coded template for the twenty-one scalp electrode placements. All he had left to do was apply the EEG conductive paste to the end of the leads and place them on James’s scalp before connecting them into the hardware block. “But I was not present for our moment of triumph and there were eager young puppies, untested and overconfident, at the helm. They revealed our plans too soon, and because of that, our enemies not only learned of our continued existence within the heart of their precious SHIELD, but they were able to defeat us.”

With a start, Steve realized that Zola was referring to Alexander Pierce and Project Insight. Pierce who had been presumed dead for the last four years, which might just be an exaggeration. 

“And like all parasites, they have attacked the foundations of our organization. Crippling our ability to rebuild by freezing our monetary assets.” Zola finished with the EEG leads and paused long enough to look Steve directly in the eye. Steve did his best to appear enthralled by his tale, like any wet-behind-the-ear recruit would. In reality, he found himself swallowing a mouthful of blood from where he had bitten through his own tongue. Satisfied by whatever he saw on Steve’s face Zola returned to putting the finishing touches on trussing James up like a sacrificial lamb. Zola fastened the blood pressure cuff to his right arm and that brought Seve’s attention back to his left. He had briefly noticed before that the limb was artificial, even though it moved with all of the fluidity of a flesh and bone arm. Moreover, Steve had known that when James disappeared he’d had a metal prosthetic that had stretched from the ball of his shoulder to the tips of his fingers. The forearm on display before Steve right now wasn’t metal. Not completely. It was ivory, set in a metal frame with delicate scrollwork and engravings that he was too far away to make out, flowing all the way up his forearm and disappearing beneath the rest of his sleeve. Scrimshaw done in intricate detail that Steve doubted Hydra could be credited for. But it begged the question, what had happened to Barnes’ metal arm?

“That is why my machine, my perfect little Soldier is so important, Steven. But if you don’t do your part I can’t do mine, and Hydra can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

“What is my part, Doctor?”

“Your part Steven, is to make sure that the Fist of Hydra is fully operational at all times. Keep my Soldier in working order so that he can steal Romanov’s money. Nevermind their new Übemensch, this Captain Whoever.” He waved a dismissive hand. Steve tried to subtly hold his breath. “Pierce can harp on about needing to discover the man’s identity as much as he wants. He already had his chance, and SHIELD “killed” Alexander before he could. It is a zero sum matter; I will rebuild Hydra once again off the back of Carter’s legacy, having corrupted one of her children to our purposes - what better revenge is there? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Heil Hydra!”

He paused clearly waiting for Steve to reply in kind. There were times in life where lines, either real or metaphorical, were drawn in the sand. Lines that one shouldn’t cross. Not if they didn’t want to lose sight of who they were as a person. Now was one of those times for Steve and this was one of those lines in the sand. A line that he knew he would never cross. Ever. He clenched his jaw stubbornly and refused to budge on the matter.

“Ah, Steven, you’re young yet. You’ll learn.” The _’you’ll break’_ went implied. Unfortunately for Zola, he underestimated Steve’s innate stubbornness. 

Zola fitted a set of headphones over James’ ears and encouraged him to bite down on a rubber mouth guard (which was not standard practice when using such equipment), then hit _Enter_ on the keyboard. Faintly Steve could hear the first stirrings of a classical composition. Just beneath the orchestra he barely caught the subliminal repetition of what he thought were Russian words. He couldn’t hear it well enough to be certain. What he was sure of, was that instead of relaxing like the majority of patients he’d seen using a biofeedback machine, James had tensed every muscle in his body to the point where he was practically vibrating in place. The purpose of the mouth guard suddenly became worryingly obvious.

“A fact for which Pierce should be grateful,” Zola muttered to himself, even as James’ started to scream through his clenched jaw.

If Steve could have gotten away with hitting the man and still maintain his cover, he would have. To hell with his cover, in that moment he would have burned down the world simply because it was the right thing to do.

** ~***~**~***~**

James did not think. He heard the snap of the doctor-handler’s fingers and went where he was told. There was no room for thought. Not when the machine was laid out like a trap waiting to be sprung.

He’s learned to fear - or is it respect? no, it was fear - the portable machine more so than he ever did the chair. Despite the chair’s use of electricity and drugs to strip him of himself, that little laptop was far more insidious for all of its innocuous appearance. Why he feared it so he could never remember, not until it was too late, and he had already sat himself down like a lamb to the slaughter. Had allowed the doctor to place the leads along his scalp, awaken the program, and feed the silver disc with its red star into the machine. It wasn’t until that moment when the opening strands of _Scheherazade_ by Rimsky-Korsakov began to play and the first word started to repeat itself just beneath that rising crescendo, that he remembered. And then he was made to forget again, with all ten words repeated in a devastating round-robin underpinning a haunting violin solo:

_Longing, **pжавый, семнадцать, рассвет, Печь, Девять, Доброкачественные, Возвращение домой, Один, грузовой вагон**_

_Rusted, **семнадцать, рассвет, Печь, Девять, Доброкачественные, Возвращение домой, Один, грузовой вагон**_

_Seventeen, **рассвет, Печь, Девять, Доброкачественные, Возвращение домой, Один, грузовой вагон**_

_Daybreak, **Печь, Девять, Доброкачественные, Возвращение домой, Один, грузовой вагон**_

_Furnace, **Девять, Доброкачественные, Возвращение домой, Один, грузовой вагон**_

_Nine, **Доброкачественные, Возвращение домой, Один, грузовой вагон**_

_Benign, **Возвращение домой, Один, грузовой вагон**_

_Homecoming, **Один, грузовой вагон**_

****

****

_One, **грузовой вагон**_

_Freight Car_

_ **…. …. ….** _

“Ready to comply.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicion runs thick. It's a family trait.

“Screams in the night,” Clint muttered mostly to himself as he shuffled his way back upstairs to the master bedroom from the cellar and his morning trip to the kitchen. He lovingly cradled a pot of freshly brewed coffee in between his hands. Rocket followed along behind him carrying a pot of tea, a jar of jam, and a cup and saucer on a tray for Natasha. Clint wasn’t yet fully awake but who would be at such an hour? Dawn had only just broken, and it wasn’t like he _needed_ to be awake to complete his morning routine of waking up early to retrieve his and Tasha’s preferred drinks. The actions were so ingrained that they were practically muscle memory by now. Clint only really needed enough brain power to avoid tripping over the ends of his baggy sleep pants and the trailing end of his smoking jacket’s ties.

“Means he’s home right?” Rocket commented anyway despite the mostly rhetorical nature of Clint’s remark.

“Umm-hmm.” Clint thought it over for a moment before deciding to voice what he was truly thinking. “Think of it, Rocket. For thirty-three years we’ve attempted to contact Bucky in the great beyond, and in all that time, nothing. Then, just when Tasha was beginning to think her brother was truly gone, to finally accept that fact, _**bam,**_ he’s back!”

“I ain’t sayin’ it ain’t suspicious,” Rocket countered, “‘cus it stinks like weeks old garbage. But, if it brings him home...” the racoon finished with a shrug. Clearly he thought that was reason enough to be okay with everything. Normally Clint would agree. This wasn’t a normal situation, however.

Clint had learned long ago never to approach anything dealing with Natasha and her extended family as normal, and it had served him in good stead so far. A noncommittal grunt was the only reply Clint feels up to giving, and Rocket accepted that easily enough. In this case Clint was feeling particularly reluctant about the whole damn plan because there was no distance from which he could observe everything. To say he wasn’t comfortable with the fact that they were in the thick of everything would be an understatement. And then Carter, who he respected greatly but thought was too close to everything to see it clearly, went and insisted on bringing Rogers into everything. Now, on top of being emotionally compromised by Bucky’s return (if this man truly was Bucky), they were esposing family secrets to a man they didn’t really know. Oh sure, Peggy knew him, but she was also the person responsible for literally fridging Steve, and that spoke volumes about what she thought about him. It didn’t really seem like the vote of confidence in his abilities she tried to make it out to be now.

Clint was a spy, and to some extent, a mercenary; before that he had been a carny, so he was no stranger to shady dealings. But that was his work and his past. He had been adamant about keeping the shadiness away from his kids. To have it slowly taking over his home had him on edge like nothing else had in years. Clint rarely got angry - anger wasn’t his issue, unlike Banner - but he could feel it boiling slowly underneath his skin. It made him either reckless or a little bit cruel. He was lucky that Natasha understood him so completely and was willing to embrace all sides of him.

It was with that comforting thought that Clint nudged open one side of their double-sided bedroom door with his foot, then stepped aside long enough to let Rocket and his tray through first. Clint watched as Rocket’s ringed tail slipped through the gap in the door while taking a thoughtful sip of his coffee. His eyes closed briefly as he practically inhaled half the pot in one go. It was brewed just the way he liked it - strong enough to stand a spoon straight up in it and hot enough to burn his taste buds off. Rocket finished setting up Tasha’s tea while Clint must have still been caught up in the throws of coffee nirvana, because he felt the racoon’s friendly pat to his calf signiling that he was done. Eyes half open, Clint shuffled forward like a zombie and kicked the door shut behind him. Part of his mind was still taken up with praising the many virtues of coffee. The rest was stuck on the current flavor of shady fuckery he found himself neck deep in.

He and Natasha had always suspected Hammer of being a crook. They just hadn’t been able to pinpoint what type of crook the estate lawyer was, and had never set aside enough time to investigate him. That was, until four years ago when Hydra’s continued survival into the twenty-first century was discovered, and Hammer’s attempts to either suss out the family’s vault or Berine Madoff Clint into a pyramid scheme went from once in a blue moon to every quarter. The direct correlation was so obvious that Clint would have had to have been the overheated moron he pretended to be in order to not have noticed. Hammer was involved with Hydra somehow.

And no, it wasn’t paranoia if they were truly out to get you and you could prove it.

“Tea,” Tasha’s voice emerged from the depths of the bed and all of the blankets piled upon it. Drawn out of his musings by her still-sleepy drawl Clint meandered his way closer to the king-sized bed and its silk sheets and microfiber comforters. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Then reached over and pulled the blankets down from around Tasha’s face, revealing the fall of her red hair spread out across the black silk of the pillowcase.

“Well, look at you,” Clint greeted Natasha. “Did you know that I could - that I have killed - just for the honor of waking up beside you.”

“Funny,” she countered with a wry half-smile.

“But it’s true.”

“I doubt you love me half as much as you love your coffee,” Tasha teased, sitting up in bed and running her fingers through the wild tangle her of hair in an attempt to tame it.

“Aww, Tasha, no.” Clint denied. “Of course I love you more. But you _and_ coffee, what bliss!” He finished taking a huge gulp to prove his point. She laughed aloud, and he smiled around his mouthful.

“Happy?” he asked after finally swallowing. She see-sawed her hand back and forth in a so-so motion just to give him a little extra grief. He chuckled, then set aside his pot of joe to start fixing her tea the way she liked it.

“Clint,” she ventured just a moment before he handed her a tea cup and saucer.

“Tasha?”

“Last night, you were unhinged. You were like some desperate howling demon. You frightened me. Do it again.”

** ~***~**~***~**

“Sleep well?” Natasha asked over breakfast the next morning. It wasn’t clear exactly who she had intended to address, and Soldier - or Barnes as the Nurse had reminded him last night, his name for this mission - didn’t realize she had meant for him to answer her. She waited a moment for him to respond. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to - wasn’t about to do anything other than stare mindlessly into the depths of his plate - Natasha turned to the Nurse for an answer. One imperiously raised eyebrow was enough to command an immediate response.

“Well enough,” the Nurse gritted out, sounding pissed off. Barnes wondered if he would be punished for not speaking. He would have to do better at acting like a real person.

** ~***~**~***~**

Loki was aware that Uncle Bucky wasn’t exactly _Uncle_ Bucky. He’d already had that conversation more than once with Hela and Thor. Still, the man managed to pretend well enough. At least, so it seemed.

But things were worse than Loki had thought. Wasn’t the purpose behind agreeing to the weird little doctor’s demands for a nurse so that they could have someone dedicated to helping Uncle Bucky at the house twenty-four seven? With the bonus of not having to put up with the toad-like man hanging around the house more than was necessary. ‘Weird’ might be relative and his family might have had a habit of embracing the creepy but there was a distinct difference between delightfully odd and downright vile. Dr. Zola fell into that second category.

The jury was still out about Mr. Rogers. Although at first glance Loki was disinclined to trust someone who looked like a narc and dressed themselves in an abundance of cozy-looking cardigans. Who other than your fairy-tale, read you stories when you were sick, replied with “as you wish” to requests, grandfather went around wearing cardigans like it was something that real people did?

Loki was perfectly aware that not everyone had to live up to his expectations of the world, but that didn’t mean that he was wrong and they were right. He already knew all about living a dual life. He was perfectly aware that Mother wasn’t a housewife and Father wasn’t a shiftless layabout. That the reason Grandfather had been gone for so long wasn’t because he was teaching at Howard University. Instead, he was off with their cousin Tripp, chasing down hidden alien artifacts and other dangerous weapons, trying to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands. Loki knew all about his family’s history of saving the world. Grandmama’s legend might be hard to live up to but that didn’t stop anyone from trying.

Loki thought he might try his hand at causing a little destruction and mayhem when he grew up, just for the sake of variety. He thought it could be fun to take Thor on in a fight like they were sworn enemies. It might be fun to be a villain, no responsibility, no expectations, just anarchy.

It became second nature for Loki to assume, or at least look for evidence of a alter ego in everyone he meets. Mother and Grandmama said it didn’t hurt to be suspicious. Father and Grandfather both seemed to wish he’d stuck to games of make believe just a little bit longer than he had. But they also seemed to get a kick out of him successfully guessing which of their guests were more than they claimed to be.

Cousin Stark liked to say that if he didn’t grow up to be the next super-villian just out of boredom then he’d make a great left hand to Thor’s need to play the white knight. Which only encouraged Loki’s desire to give villinay a try, honestly. As for Hela, well…. Everyone already knew they could count on Hela becoming a general and plan accordingly to stay the fuck out of her way.

All of this was to say that Loki didn’t trust this nurse. Trusted him about as much as he trusted the man claiming to be his uncle, probably a little less actually. Nurse Rogers seemed to genuinely want to help and care for his new charge. He certainly had a welcoming and charming manner about him and that could easily be a cover for something sinister. According to Hela, the fact that he insisted on dressing mostly in pastels was a potential mark against him. But at least he had the good taste not to wear clothing generally favoured by wannabe Ambercrombie models. His personal style seemed to be more pastel punk then preppy jock, and Hela could get behind it, for the most part.

Thor liked that Rogers would indulge him in talk about sports and would listen to his long rambling soliloquies on weapons and the art of war. Rogers would even take time out of his duties to join Thor and Father in a sparring match. Usually whenever Uncle Bucky was napping. He did that more often since Rogers had been hired, napped at random times throughout the day in the oddest of places. But then Loki recalled hearing the screaming coming from the nurse’s turret room after Bucky’s treatments at night. That could explain the constant napping.

It would be a lie to say Loki wasn’t curious about Barnes’ treatments and what they entailed. Anything that could make a person scream like that was worth investigating, in his opinion. The fact that Hela wanted to know as well only encouraged him. He had taken to hovering in the hallway outside of the nurse’s room, hoping to catch a glimpse of what went on inside. So far he’d had no luck, what between Rogers own vigilance and Mother’s collusion.

** ~***~**~***~**

The youngest boy - Loki - was hovering outside of his door again. It’s the fourth evening in a row that Steve had found him lurking there, standing stock still as if he could blend in with the dark grey herringbone patterned wallpaper and black walnut wainscoting. The family’s grey tabby Tydings winded her way lazily between his ankles. To be perfectly frank, Steve was more concerned by the cat’s scrutiny than the boy’s. Tydings was no ordinary cat; there was something about the tabby and her tweed bow tie that reminded him strongly of both Goose and Chewie. Steve wasn’t about to ignore a gut feeling, not when it concerned a cat. The two of them could always be found loitering in the hallway with Loki glaring fierce enough to burn a hole through the door. Steve started to wonder if the power of the kid’s mind would be enough to take out the flimsy doorframe. Part of him kind of wanted to see it happen. Steve wasn’t a dummy. He knew what Loki wanted. It was Tydings’ motives he couldn’t figure out.

Overhearing a grown man scream as if he were being tortured when he was supposedly receiving a prescribed therapy would be more than enough to pique anyones curiosity. And the treatment Steve had been directed to give his charge was the furthest thing from humane an individual could get. Good thing that Steve planned to stop administering it as soon as he thought he could get away with it.

The fact that the man prescribing it dared to call himself a doctor was the biggest load of shit Steve had ever heard in his life. (And he’d heard some whoppers in his time). If Zola hadn’t voluntarily confirmed that yes, he was in fact _**THAT**_ Armin Zola, Hydra’s premiere scientist, Steve would have claimed he was just to get the green-light from SHIELD on the arrest order. Steve hoped that SHIELD had learned from their previous mistakes and would only hold Zola long enough to gather information on additional “Heads of Hydra.” But he knew better than to hold his breath. SHIELD, out of concern for the “greater good,” had perfected the art of repeating the same mistakes and calling it progress long ago.

Not for the first time, hell, not even for the second time, Steve found himself wishing that he hadn’t agreed to this mission. Particularly since it required him to deal with the personal lives of those he worked with and respected, when they themselves hadn’t felt comfortable with sharing that kind of information with him. It was one thing for Steve to suspect that the Black Widow and Hawkeye had a relationship closer than friendship, but it was another to come face to face with the domesticity that was Natasha and Clint. To be frank, he felt like a perv, peeking behind a curtain into a world that he shouldn’t see without their consent.

Honestly, Steve, didn’t think he was handling spying on his teammates and friends too well. Although, now that he thought about it, it was rather sad that it took having his arm twisted into agreeing to a mission of questionable objectivity for him to be invited into his “friends’” home for the first time in seven years. Pot meet kettle. After all, it wasn’t like he’d ever extended any invitations to them in the past seven years. It was uncomfortable for him specifically because there had been a carefully constructed distance kept between their work lives and their private lives. Especially the fact that Nat and Clint had children. Clearly their reluctance to share that much of their private life meant it shouldn’t be banded about by others.

Technically, he might have Carter’s consent to violate the sanctity of her family home. But Carter wasn’t the only one who lived there, and there was no way the kids understood what was going on, not fully, anyway. Yet here Peggy was, up in it to her neck again, and Steve found himself dragged along for the ride. Willingly or not, as was usually the case. God he wished he could walk away. But he couldn’t. Simply because this might very well be their best chance to finally do away with Hydra once and for all. Schmidt might have been the head of the snake, but Zola had always been its neck.

At least his mission parameters were clear, despite whatever personal and moral qualms he might be experiencing. He’d already found the proof needed to convince Fury and the rest of the rebuilt Security Council that this man was Armin Zola, and he truly did have a brainwashed James Barnes within his thrall. Technically speaking Steve’s job was already done before it had even gotten started. All he needed to do was report in. Like hell Steve was going to leave it at that, though.

Steve wasn’t blind. He’d noticed the electric chair in the attic and the Iron Maiden in the den, among other features that were not exactly kosher or standard issue for your average suburban household when he was given a tour of the house. But then Carter had never been one to inspire an image of middle class suburbia. Maybe a little Stepford Wives, but only if she was the mastermind behind remaking men in her image of what they should be. So yes, he wasn’t blind, and Steve knew that this family was more than a little eccentric, but what one did with full consent and knowledge of what was about to happen was an entirely different matter to what he was being asked to do.

He had hoped that Barnes’ screams, muffled as they were, had gone either completely unnoticed or were thought to be commonplace enough not to warrant any special attention. But evidently anything that happened to their newly returned uncle was worthy of extra scrutiny as far as the children were concerned. Particularly Loki. The kid turned being suspicious into an artform. Steve found himself admiring Loki’s tenacity when he wasn’t cursing him for it. It hadn’t taken much for Steve to win over Thor. Clint had graciously offered to spar with Steve that first morning after Natasha’s failed attempt at engaging Barnes in conversation, and that had been enough for the older boy to accept Steve. Hela appeared indifferent, but then Steve had caught her eyeballing him speculatively from time to time. Thanks to Rocket’s not so subtle teasing Steve knew that she had a bit of a crush. (Steve wished he could claim to be surprised about talking to a racoon.) Steve decided to handle that much the same way in which he had handled the admiration of OSS clerks during the war: flattered, embarrassed, and ultimately not interested. In the case of Hela, Steve was careful not to encourage her.

That just left Loki, disinclined to trust Steve, or even like him, and unfortunately there wasn’t much Steve could do about that right now. He had more important things on his plate then appeasing Loki’s curiosity. Or trying to win him over.

Namely attempting to reverse-engineer Barnes’ conditioning. For it had to have been conditioning. That was the only explanation Steve would accept. There was no earthly reason for the son Carter was so proud of, the man with such a fierce protective streak and a gentle heart but the grit to do what was necessary that Steve had gotten to know through their brief wartime correspondence bickering over missions plans, to just roll over and serve the enemy. Steve knew of the Red Room, and James had time spent with them during the majority of the Cold War, believing himself to be a Russian citizen working to stop the spread of capitalism and its evils. (Or something along those lines. Steve was unsure, truth be told, he had been deliberately kept out of the loop and then ended up on ice during the resolution.) But that also meant that Steve knew about Fennhoff and the work he had done instilling trigger phrases and code words into all of the Red Room’s operatives. Words and phrases used to wipe an individual of their agency and sense of self, intended to force an individual into doing someone else’s will even if it went against their own nature.

It was obvious to Steve that Zola had words specifically designed for Barnes that he was ruthlessly weilding to keep a tight rein on Barnes. It only took witnessing the one session of his “treatment” process to convince Steve. And to think Zola mockenginly referred to it as a “soft” restart. He claimed he needed the ‘chair’ to properly calibrate the Soldier - as he so dissimisselvy called Barnes - but the last functional chair they he had access to had recently been destroyed by those meddlesome Avengers. Steve could recall with terrifying clarity exactly what machinery Zola was referring to; it had looked like a bastardized version of a dentist's chair and was capable of channeling enough voltage to fry a dozen fish at once, let alone the brains of the poor sod whose head was fitted underneath its metal halo. He’d only wished they'd destroyed it sooner.

Watching as someone who had once been, relatively, animated transformed before his eyes into a fair facsimile of a porcelain doll, as Barnes’ expression completely blanked out and his movements became mechanical. As if there was a short in the neural pathways from his brain to his limbs that caused his once lithe grace to become disjointed and out of sync. Had been chilling for Steve to witness. Zola, however, had watched Barnes struggle to reboot himself with a malicious and possessive grin. Just when Steve thought he couldn’t hate someone more, his dislike for Zola hit a new low.

Thankfully Zola deemed him competent enough to leave him in charge of his precious tools and their maintenance. The doctor left shortly after breakfast the following morning, ignoring Natasha’s attempt at making conversation and Barnes’ stilted response. That day saw the start of Loki’s spying and Tydings’ dogging Steve’s ankles. With the added pressure of Natasha and Peggy’s near constant scrutiny, Steve couldn’t help but feel hounded from all sides. It made it difficult for him to decide how to proceed while keeping his mission parameters in mind and Barnes’ well-being at the forefront.

Steve listened to Zola’s CD, partially out of a sense of duty, but mostly to appease his own curiosity. He _knew_ he had he heard Russian words beneath the orchestra, and playing it now for himself without the distraction of Zola and Barnes in the room, Steve could make them out clearly now. They were words that held no meaning for him and no obvious effect on him either. Steve dutifully wrote them down anyway, hoping that they might mean something to Natasha. Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car - they were random words, but felt like they had been deliberately picked. There was something about the purposes behind the words that convinced Steve they were more than just meaningless drivel.

His current working theory was that these words had some sort of connection to events in Barnes’ life. Knowing what Steve did of Fennhoff and the man’s use of post-hypnotic suggestions made sense that he would have rooted the trigger words in formative memories like a sleeper-cell virus just waiting to be triggered.

Now that Steve knew what was on the innocuous looking silver disc, he needed to decide what to do with it. He clearly couldn’t keep it, and certainly wouldn’t be using it again, despite Zola’s recommendation that he recalibrate Barnes at least once a week. Steve needed somewhere to hide it, preferably where no one else could ever find it again. He’d been stuck with this dilemma for the last three days, and he’d only been at the Barton-Romanov house for four.

Suppressing a put-upon sigh, Steve greeted Loki and his cat with small nod before pulling his bedroom door shut with a resounding snap. “Evening, was there something I could help you with?”

Loki gave him a slow appraising look before sniffing dismissively and retreating to his own bedroom. Tydings remained out in the hallway, tail curled around her front paws and twitchy slightly almost as if she was using it to mark time.

“May I help you?” Steve asked her, not adverse to looking silly by talking to a cat.

Tydings appeared to think about that for a moment before sauntering across the hall in a manner that only a cat could manage. She rubbed up against his ankles in a winding figure eight before sitting down in front of his bedroom door and flashing a deliberate look up at him with her yellow-green eyes. Steve could take a hint.

He opened the door for her - furtively checking to make sure that Loki truly had left - and followed her into the room, curious to see what she might do. Turned out it was a smart decision on Steve’s part, even though he never could have predicted what happened next.

Tydings made her way across the floor and leapt up onto the vanity where Steve had left the laptop with the biofeedback software and the cursed CD. She sat there and imperiously surveyed the room for a moment before tilting her head to regard the silver disc sitting just to the left of her. Steve watched her with rapt fascinating, expecting - well he wasn’t sure exactly what he expected of the cat, he just knew felt like he should anticipate something. Seconds ticked by and it was just as Steve was making up his mind to dismiss Tydings as just another ordinary curious feline who had finagled her way into where she wanted to be by taking advantage of Steve’s imagination and flare for the mysterious, that she yawned in the general direction of the CD. A mass of tentacles erupted from her gaping mouth to lash out and engulf the disc.

Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had been so startled that he jumped and swore reflexively. Part of him felt vindicated; he’d been right to compare Tydings to both Goose and Chewie because like them, she was more than she seemed. Steve has to wonder about the odds of knowing three Flerkens. It seemed odd that the species was so common on the planet. Maybe it had something to do with how everyone who he knew happened to have a Flerken were also associated with SHIELD.

Interesting coincidence. But rather unimportant at the moment. No, what Steve was most concerned with and grateful for was that in one fell swoop Tydings had solved the problem about what to do with a recorded copy of James’ trigger words. There was no safer place for something so dangerous than in the belly of a Flerken who didn’t want to give up her secrets.

“Good kitty,” Steve praised her, holding a hand out to her for Tydings to accept pets if she wanted them. With a trilling chirp that tripped its way into a full blown purr Tydings rubbed her face down his knuckles and left a fleeting kiss of a lick on the pad of his thumb before leaping from the vanity to his bedside table and stepping off of that to curl up on his pillows. With a shrug and nod to himself Steve graciously decided to accept the fact that Tydings had appropriated his bed for her own use. It only seemed fair.

** ~***~**~***~**

“Sleep well?” Natasha asked again over breakfast halfway through the first fortnight Barnes had been made to suffer through with the addition of the nurse. This time James knew she was speaking to him.

He has been able to track things with greater clarity since Rogers had come into the house. That was, when he wasn’t finding himself inexplicably exhausted for whatever reason and drifting off in the oddest of places. The nurse was doing something different, something no other handler had done before: he’d stopped the use of the recalibration program. And because of that Barnes was beginning to feel more like a person and less like a machine. Because of that he had started to not only notice things but make connections as well. For example, Rogers.

James had already noticed that the nurse was attractive, but now he was starting to understand that Rogers was _attractive_. He found it distressing and _highly_ inconvenient. James would have like to spend his nights sneaking around the manor attempting to discover the family vault while everyone was conveniently asleep and therefore unable to question him. But instead, he found himself wasting time mooning over some stranger. When he wasn’t suddenly confronted by what he began to suspect were resurfacing memories, not the elaborate dreams he used to believe them to be. Dreaming had always been a red flag that the conditioning had broken down nearly beyond repair, and Soldier had been in need of maintenance. He hadn’t cared for the protocol that demanded that he report his malfunction - immediately - but he had at least understood it and found comfort in the structure it provided. Rogers did not seem to care that James’ programming was breaking down. In fact he seemed relieved every time he saw signs of its deterioration.

Just one more item to add to the list of things that confused the hell out of James and only served as a further distraction from his mission.

“Like the dead,” James finally answered Natasha hoping that it was enough to satisfy her curiosity.

“Really?” Clint asked pausing in playing with his oatmeal to favor James with a piercing look. “Who would’ve thought the Bermuda Triangle could change a man. You used to be up for days on end with nearly incurable insomnia. Tasha used to threaten to choke you with her thighs just so you get some kind of rest.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Loki interjected.

“Agreed.” That was from Hela. “How could spending time in the Triangle fundamentally change someone’s habits?”

James stared at them both for a moment, trying to decide where ignoring them fell in his mission parameters. If there was a chance he could get away with ignoring all of the children then he was going to snatch it up with both hands. Children were difficult. Everytime he looked at one of the three kids he was struck with the memory of little girls in black leotards and ballerina slippers learning how to shoot. It jarred him. Particularly when his trickling memories presented him with the image of a little red haired girl wielding a garrote with frightening accuracy. A little red haired girl who quickly morphed into Natasha in his minds’ eye.

“The Bermuda Triangle is such a mysterious place,” James replied almost absentmindedly trying to rid himself of the memory of classical music and the thud of small bodies hitting a workout mat. “You’d be surprised at all the things you don’t know.” He continued finding the comment oddly prophetic.

That thought made him pause and stare at his plate, not really seeing it. He was surprised by everything he didn’t know, but truthfully he was more surprised that he realized it. James was used to not questioning anything presented to him, and lately - since coming to the house that appeared to be all that he did. (Aside from when Zola refreshed the programing.)

“Hela and Loki certainly would,” Natasha said studying James and his reactions even as she placed her head in her hand. “They both adore the Bermuda Triangle. They study it religiously. Death at sea - they’re hooked.”

“Ask us anything,” Hela and Loki said in unison. He faced their twin stares and fought the urge to look away not wanting to seem intimidated. He was able to save face thanks to Thor waltzing down the stairs with a large metal stop sign in tow. Everyone paused then to listen. Their patience was soon rewarded with the sound of screeching tires and metal crashing.

“Well done, Thor!” Clint praised him. He accepted his father’s praise with a wide grin before joining the rest of them at the table. Everyone was now present except for Rogers. James had yet to see the distracting nurse this morning, which was unusual as he was often the first person James was confronted by each morning after another harrowing night filled with dreams. He would have asked after Rogers’ absence but he didn’t want anyone to wonder why he cared. The last thing James needed was trying to answer someone else’s questions when he couldn’t even provide a satisfying answer for his _own_ peace of mind.

A clatter sounded on the stairwell as someone stumbled on them. Once again everyone’s attention was directed towards the stairs just in time to see Rogers come tumbling down looking a little worse for wear with scuff marks, dirt, and the start of a nasty looking road rash down his exposed right forearm. He had a helmet on his head with a cracked visor and scoring down the side as if it had been dragged down the road. Rogers removed the helmet to reveal a scraped chin and a dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth and his nose.

“Oh, that’s where the stop sign went,” he commented mildly before turning to hang up his helmet and revealing a skidmark on the back of his brown leather jacket.

Barnes turned to the rest of the family to clock their reactions and wasn’t shocked to see them accepting the man’s appearance without batting an eye. Why would they find it alarming? He’d noticed the house’s decor, and to say that it embraced the macabe would be an understatement. What with the electric chair and working guillotine tucked away in the attic as if they were family heirlooms and the copious amounts of weapons proudly displayed on the walls and a tourture rack in the library, having a man appear in their kitchen after having obviously walked away from a car crash was clearly old hat for them all.

“Alright there, Rogers?” Natasha teasingly asked. Rogers nodded, moving towards the sink to wet himself a towel with which he attempted to do a spot cleaning before joining everyone at the table. James noticed that he moved with a bit of a limp and he wondered if a nerve in his leg had been pinched.

“Not bad,” Rogers answered, “although my bike has seen better days.”

The rest of breakfast passed without incident, a fact for which James was grateful. _I can only believe in three impossible things this morning,_ he thought, uncertain as to why it would occur to him to believe in anything impossible to begin with. That was the trouble with finding himself becoming more of a person than a machine, the most random things occurred to him, and James had no reference point for them at all.

James ended up wandering throughout the house after breakfast, peaking into every nook and cranny he happened upon. This might not be the best way to go about trying to find a hidden vault, but it was the only method he had open to him without appearing suspicious.

It was as he was wandering through the hallway on his way to Barton’s study to recheck it once more for hidden wall safes that he passed a bear skin rug. He’d just walked by the head when something clamped around his left ankle, stalling him in his tracks. Looking down he discovered the brown bear’s fangs wrapped around his limb. James shook his ankle to try and dislodge the bear, but to no avail.

“Stop that,” he scolded, flummoxed by how found he sounded to have been mauled by a bear skin rug.

“You can’t blame him for grabbing on, he’s missed you.” A voice spoke up behind him and James looked over his shoulder to discover Clint leaning against the archway leading back towards the front door.

“He’s missed me?” James asked despite his better judgement. He’d made a rule to avoid engaging with the family as much as possible while stuck here, but found himself breaking it at every opportunity.

“Yes your pet bear, _Pisoi_, don’t you remember?”

No, he didn’t remember. But he very much wanted to know what possessed him to have a pet bear, let alone give him a name like that. _Pisoi_ meant ‘kitten’ in Romanian. How the hell had a bear made him think of a kitten?’

After waiting a moment to see if James would answer him, Clint appeared to take pity on him and explained; “You found him when you were trapped in a Russian gulag.”

A memory struck him then, of a huge bear rushing towards him, mouth gaping open in a roar, fangs dripping with so much saliva it looked rabid.

“I fought it,” James muttered, disbelieving. Why would he ever fight a bear?

“That’s right, see you do remember!”

James thought that the other man’s enthusiasm was a little premature and led him to respond with a, “Some things.”

“Some is better than none,” Clint countered, stepping alongside James before bending over to tap the rug on the top of its head, encouraging the bear to let go of James’ ankle. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Wandering throughout the house trying to jog your memory?”

“Yes,” James replied, uncertain if that was the right thing to say.

“Not a bad idea, but you’ll have to change your plans today. I’d like to take you straight to the vault this afternoon if that’s okay with you?”

Stunned that he was about to be given exactly what he wanted, all James could do was nod.

“Perfect!” Clint exclaimed clapping his hands together in delight. “Walk this way,” he instructed, flouncing off towards the library. James followed him, walking normally.

Which was apparently wrong, for Clint looked back over his shoulder to check on James’ progress and muttered disappointedly to himself; “Well that joke fell flat.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A goal in sight.

The Barton-Romanov family vault, it turns out, was located beneath the house. A perfectly reasonable place for it and a fine explanation for why Idiot Lawyer hadn’t been able to locate it. Particularly since one had to navigate their way through a labyrinth before arriving at the vault. Unfortunately Hydra did not accept excuses, and any failure to complete a task was an excuse in Hydra’s books. Soldier, or rather James, as he’d become accustomed to thinking of himself, was impressed by Barton’s ability to be discreet. Truthfully, James suspected Natalia - or Natasha as she insisted on being called - hand was behind it all. Her or the Grandmother Peggy.

Barton led James down to the vault by opening a hidden passageway tucked away behind a bookcase in the first floor study. The key was a book aptly entitled _Greed_. The passageway took them to a flight of steps that Barton gleefully skipped his way down, with James stomping along behind him until it ended in a small circular chamber with multiple chains of various lengths hanging from the ceiling. With a manic smile, Clint reached up and pulled one out of the dozens of chains, causing the floor to drop out below them and deposit them on a slide that sent them twisting off into darkness.

The impromptu ride ended abruptly at a wooden dock that was beginning to stink with rot. For a moment, James was naive enough to believe that would be the end of it. But then he saw the row boat. He really should have known better.

“Smell that air, Bucky!” Clint implored him, taking a deep breath of rancid muck like one would fresh sea air. “Just like a tomb! Lovely,” he finished, clapping his hands together gleefully before looking back at James. When he saw James’ blank expression he continued explaining. “The sea Bucky - your second home.”

He even went so far as to reach out a hand in order to guide James into the wooden skip. For a moment James considered taking the offered hand and using it to toss this aggravation in the form of a man off the side of the dock into the murky water. Clint gave him a cheeky grin as if he knew exactly what James was thinking. (Rogers had said that James was becoming more expressive.)

“Ship ahoy…” he muttered instead, making his own way onto the vessel.

** ~***~**~***~**

“I have to be honest, I did not think you would accept the position.” She’d ambushed him while he was in the kitchen pulling together one of the few pre-approved meals Dr. Zola had prescribed for Bucky’s health. Pre-approved slop was more like it. They were doing better now, however; Steve only needed to coax Bucky into eating the substitute meal slush once a day instead of three times a day like he had been.

“No reason not to, it's a good job,” Steve replied, aware that they were being spied upon by curious children and censoring himself as needed.

Peggy chuckled at his clumsy attempt at responding to her without _actually_ replying. Steve elected to ignore her. It had always been the safer option.

He finished fixing the processed slush and scooped it out into a shake bottle, a fluorescent pink bottle which was rather disconcerting to discover in this particular kitchen. The whole house had a very distinct gothic circus vibe going and fluorescent anything didn’t really seem to fit. It was very much like _The Munsters_ clashing with _Mean Girls_.

Steve had a hard time picturing the bottle as something Romanov would deliberately buy. He could easily picture Peggy buying it on a whim. Or Barton deciding that it was something he _had_ to have. But not Natasaha. Although, he’d observed her long enough to realize that she showed her affection for those she cared about by indulging their quirks.

Still, it was easier for Bucky to chug the industrial waste then to try and trawl a spoon through the boggy mixture. Plus the bottle had a convenient little blender ball that helped to keep the slush from congealing like concrete, and Bucky seemed to enjoy the clunking sound it made when he shook it. As far as Steve was concerned anything that brought a spark of personality back to the poor man was worth any absurdity in his book.

Speaking of absurdity, Steve couldn’t help but chuckle at the family's nickname for Barnes, and he’d caught himself using it himself. Mostly for the delight of seeing Barnes’ flabbergasted expression every time he called him ‘Bucky’. For someone who could appear so robotic and removed from everything, the man blushed so prettily. Even when his personality was suppressed by the treatment program, he still would blush if Steve looked at him in the right way.

Even when Steve had first arrived and Bucky was still clearly under the thrall of his trigger words, had been more Zola’s favorite puppet than his own person, Bucky would blush whenever Steve appeared to pay any particular attention to him. Steve found it endearing and almost too adorable to believe. But despite that, he tried his best to ignore anything that could be misconstrued as a sign of attraction from Bucky. In Steve’s mind it couldn’t be trusted. Not when Bucky was still so clearly trying to rediscover himself. Just because Steve was playing at being a nurse right now didn’t mean he had to fall into the Florence Nightingale trope. He could admire Bucky for his strength of character and fortitude, he could also appreciate how handsome Barnes was, but he wouldn’t touch. Not just because he wanted to avoid playing into that cliché, but because he knew he couldn’t trust the truth of anything that might potentially happen between them. Steve knows himself well enough that he knows he’d forever question whether Bucky _actually_ liked him in that way or if he had simply latched onto the first person outside of his family to show him some kindness and treat him like a human being. Steve didn’t want any uncertainty hovering over a potential relationship.

Therefore he did what came naturally to him, he ignored any and all attraction he felt towards Bucky. Just bundled it up tight into a little mental chest and shoved it down deep into the farthest reaches of his mind. Or at least that was the theory. So far it wasn’t working out very well for him, but Steve was determined. He’s gone this long without someone special in his life, he could do without for just a while longer.

Natasha disagreed. At least she used to like to tease him about his dating life or lack thereof when Steve had first joined the Avengers. He hadn’t heard much from her since he’d retired from hero work, but that didn’t stop her from trying to pry now. Evidently unfettered access to his person meant Natasha felt like she should have unfettered access to everything else associated with him. Steve couldn’t help but think that Peggy felt the same, but for different reasons.

Steve respected Peggy, there’s not a bone in his body predisposed not to, she’d always treated him like a younger cousin, and Steve had always felt a great deal of affection towards her. He appreciated what she had done for him, sticking up for him and putting his name forward for Project Rebirth. Peggy had stuck her neck out for him when she didn’t have too, and for that he was grateful. But he’s also aware that a part of Peggy viewed him as a pale imitation of the son she’d lost in ‘45. Steve knew that for a fact because once she had recovered Barnes for the first time, Steve had been immediately placed on ice via her orders.

“I suppose you’re right about that,” Peggy countered after a long silence. She favored him with a considering look that Steve tried his best to duck. He didn’t need Peggy trying to analyze him right now. “Would you follow me to the conservatory, Steven? I believe that’s where Clint and James will go once they’re finished with their male-bonding time in their little clubhouse.”

** ~***~**~***~**

Clint rowed them down the underground canal until they came to another dock at the base of what appeared to be a support structure for the house’s foundation. Although the visible bank vault door sitting placidly between two antique wall sconces gave a very different impression. For being a bit of a clown, Clint managed to deftly maneuver their vessel into a smooth docking. Once again James found himself reluctantly impressed by his, alleged, brother-in-law. They disembarked and Barton skipped his way over to the vault door. He might as well have been taking a sunny stroll for how much delight he was taking from this whole endeavour. Then Clint managed to trip over either air or his own feet, and fell gracefully into the door, landing with a hand on the dial. Without missing a beat he started to spin the combination in the correct sequence to unlock the door. Unfortunately, or fortunately for James - as he would need the information for when he planned his breakin - the other man felt the need to narrate the process.

“Sixty-two to the right, seventy to the left, then around to…?”

“Five?”

“Eighty-two. Sixty-two, seventy, eighty-two. Nat’s birth year, the year you both came home from the Red Room, and the year Nat and I got married. Oh, you’ve surely been gone too long if you’ve forgotten all of that.”

James was saved from having to reply to that not-so-subtle dig by the heavy metal door swinging open. Clint wrapped an arm around James’ shoulders, and hugging him close, led him inside.

“Our secret place. Sanctus sanctorum. Oh, if only these walls could talk, eh, old man?”

“What…” James started ask only to drift off. He looked around the interior of the vault and saw that it was nothing more than yet another gloomy room with cobwebs gathered thickly in the corners and dust like a carpet on every visible surface. More so than the ‘lived-in’ rooms of the main house. It looked like a lounge room complete with a bar. There was absolutely nothing special about it as far as James could tell and no need for it to be locked up tight behind a bank vault door.

“What would they say?” he finally finished asking confused as to why they were here of all places.

“You tell me.”

“You go first,” James countered much to Clint’s obvious puzzlement.

“First a brandy! Do the honors would you, then we can exchange stories.” Clint directed him over toward the fully stocked bar. James was glad to note that it happened to have alcohol on it in addition to the dust and spider webs between bottles and stretched over the rims of glasses. James pulled open a drawer hoping to find a rag that he could use to give the glassware a quick dust down before using it. He might have learned not to be picky, to make do with what he had while stuck in the Bermuda Triangle with Zola, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have standards. Zola tried his damndest to turn him into a senseless machine - a state of being that James suspected he was no stranger to - but Rogers has been doing everything in his power to reverse the condition and so far, the nurse was winning. Luckily James found a rag in the first drawer he happened to open, and after judiciously wiping out two glasses, he reached for the nearest brandy decanter and pulled the stopper. Like flipping a switch, it caused the whole bar to rattle then rotate slowly like a record on a turntable just starting to play. James looked up and in the mirror above the bar and no longer saw a reflection of Clint digging through an old cabinet but heaps and mounds of gold and twinkling trinkets. Before James had time to fully process what it was he was seeing, the dias turned again and James found himself once again staring at a reflection of Clint’s back.The only thing remotely gold in it was the dim reflection of the candle light in his dirty blond hair.

** ~***~**~***~**

Attempting to spy on Rogers while he was in his room with Uncle Bucky had proved useless over time, but spying on him while he was in communal areas of the house was proving to be more enlightening. Unlike with his bedroom, where Rogers’ vigilance would put a dragon guarding his hoard to shame - he was oblivious to the nine-year-old Loki tailing him throughout the house. It helped that during the day Tydings was inclined to leave him alone and not give away the multiple hiding places Loki employed to perfect his spycraft. Currently he was lurking behind the hollow suit of armor in the downstairs hallway just beside the doorway leading down to the kitchen. The acoustics there were nearly perfect; he could spy in peace to his heart’s content.

Loki could hear the conversation between Rogers and Grandmama downstairs in the kitchen as well as anyone who might approach the basement staircase. He was in his element, waiting there in the shadows absorbing all that he could.

Loki was fascinated by the quippy back and forth Grandmama and the nurse shared, simply because it spoke of greater familiarity than one of employer and employee of just a few weeks. Loki desperately wanted to know _why_ Grandmama would act so familiar with someone she had just met, and hoped his spying would soon provide him with those answers.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought Loki out of his musings. He drew himself upright inside of his hiding spot, holding his limbs taunt and close to his body, careful to not let them touch the sides of the armor so that they didn’t accidentally rattle anything. It would have been awful if he somehow gave himself away and lost such a prime spying spot. His patience was quickly rewarded when Grandmama and the nurse passed by, Grandmama leading the way and Nurse Rogers laden down with an afternoon tea service complete with one of those shakes intended for Uncle Bucky. Loki didn’t trust those shakes. He didn’t know what was in them and therefore didn’t believe that they were beneficial.

Although, it could just be that Loki was at heart a suspicious little shit. Fifty-fifty chance that it could go either way.

He watched as Grandmama and the nurse walked down the hallway away from him towards the conservatory. Grandmama was regaling Rogers with some story about Grandpa during the war that Loki had heard before and didn’t feel any need to pay attention to now. It was curious that Rogers was rolling his eyes at Grandmama’s story and attempting to stifle a smile behind her back. To Loki it seemed like Rogers already _knew_ the story and Grandmama was just reshashing it for the joy of making the nurse laugh. This was all just becoming curiouser and curiouser. Loki would get to the bottom of this mystery even if it was the last thing he did. (Okay, so that was a tad bit dramatic, but he meant it.)

Loki waited for a few moments after they had turned the corner before slipping out from behind the armor, using all of the cunning at his disposal to shadow them. Even going so far as to employ the few notice-me-not illusionist tricks Grandmama had taught him to use with his talent. He’d thought he was being pretty slick, Loki carried on humming the Mission Impossible™ theme to himself. He didn’t really care for the films but he had to admit that theme came in handy. By the time he was done pretending to be Ethan Hunt (it was only thanks to Thor and his brief obsession with those films that Loki knew anything about them - honest, it was all Thor’s fault), he had caught up to his suspects who were settling in for tea and a game of chess set up on a metal table in the middle of all of the plotted plants. Groot was there watering the belladona, and so was Mother, pruning the roses. Loki slipped into the room and ducked behind a trendle table that was practically groaning under the weight of Grandmama’s crop of water hemlock waiting to be harvested. This gave him the best sightlines for the whole room while also keeping him hidden from view.

“Think of it, Mama,” Mother was saying as she snipped off a couple of choice blooms. “Gazing longingly at each other when they’re not looking, sleepless nights wondering if their feelings could ever be returned by the object of their affection… Why, it would just be rude of us to spoil the pinning for either one of them.”

“Very funny, Natasha,” Rogers remarked dryly, even as he studied the chess board before making his next move.

“You shouldn’t tourture him, Natasha,” Grandmama chided, and Loki’s new hiding spot was close enough for him to catch the mischievous glint in her eyes. “I’m sure Steve can manage that all on his own. And if he can’t, James will.”

“That’s an excellent point, Mama,” Mother agreed, smiling wickedly at Rogers, who simply groaned and looked like he wanted to bury his face in his hands. “It should be James’ job to tourture him. How silly of me to forget! Is teasing still allowed?”

“By all means, tease away.”

“Please, show some decorum,” Rogers suggested, and to Loki’s ears he sounded both equally amused and frustrated by Mother’s enthusiasm at the prospect of teasing him. For what, Loki wasn’t quite sure yet, although he gathered it had something to do with Uncle Bucky.

“Decorum,” Mother repeated, “in my own house? I don’t think so.” She finished removing a rosebud with a pointed snip of her gardening shears. Instead of looking frightened by the gesture (as Loki had seen others do - namely Mr. Hammer), Rogers chuckled before shrugging as if to say ‘fair enough’. He finally reached for one of the white pawns on the chess board, moving it forward two squares to begin the game.

“As I was saying before, Steven,” Grandmama said, moving her own pawn with barely a glance at the board, “I do appreciate you taking the time to do me this favor. I know you were enjoying your soulitude.”

Rogers huffed at that, his shoulders rounding in a way that Loki thought looked pensive and judgemental. He didn't respond right away, instead he focused on the game and moved yet another piece. Grandmama allowed him to brood in silence for a moment longer while she took her next turn.

“I realize that this can’t be easy for you Steven, and I - ”

"You don't ask for small favors, do you Miss Peggy." Nurse Rogers finally spoke up and Loki knew that wasn’t meant to be a question. The man sounded absolutely furious, for all that his voice was mild as milk. “But then again, you never have.”

Loki was more than a little stunned by the vhenemace in the nurse’s tone. Particularly since up until now the man had appeared so damn unflappable. Loki had overheard uncle Bucky shouting vitriol at the man for no good reason, and Rogers had simply allowed it to flow off of him like water off of a duck’s back.

Loki could not even begin to understand why Grandmama’s thanking him for agreeing to do her a favor would inspire such a strong response. Although it would probably make more sense to Loki if he understood how it was that Grandmama and Rogers already knew each other. He felt confident in putting a green checkmark next to that particular pet theory, considering it confirmed. Still, he had the feeling that he’d missed the first two acts of a brilliant three-act play.

“You are absolutely right. But then, you always did rise to the occasion.My faith in you has ever been misplaced. Forgive me for it, or don’t, that’s your decision.”

** ~***~**~***~**

“Here!” Clint exclaimed, gesturing to the screen where a younger version of himself, James, and Natasha were depicted on black and white film. Each of them was dressed to the nines, obviously attending some sort of a black tie event. James couldn’t tell the colors of their respective outfits because the film was in black and white, but something told him that Clint was wearing purple while he was in classic black, and Natasha was in red. He was surprised to find that Clint of all people managed to clean up nicely. It wasn’t a shock to see how beautiful Natasha was in her evening dress, nor was he startled by his own appearance. He had been used once or twice before for undercover missions that had involved fancy dress. James was aware, at least he was more so now, of the type of figure he cut in a suit. If Barton had brought him down just for the reminder that this body was considered conventionally handsome, then they were better off skipping all of this rigamarole. It was a complete waste of time; James didn’t need the reminder because he saw no value in knowing it. He was just about to tell Clint as much when the man spoke up again.

“There! Gamora and Nebula,” he pointed out, gesturing to two women on the film who looked distinctly uncomfortable with their surroundings and hostile about it. One had long black hair and stood with her arms folded across her chest, one hip cocked. She lazily munching away at an apple. The other was bald and held her arms stiffly at her side as if she did not know what they were for, at least not in her current situation. Both were dressed in form-fitting leather from head to toe, similar to the outfit James was used to wearing as the Soldier when Hydra sent him after a target. His eyes reflectively roamed over both of the women to see if he could spy hidden weapons.

“Can you ever forgive us?” Clint asked, his voice intruding on James’ mental tally.

“What?” he snapped, face failing at the thought of another complication.

“You weren’t supposed to be on that mission. You weren’t supposed to even know it was happening. Peggy hadn’t wanted you to. But Gamora and Nebula had crashed the Stark Gala to tell us that their father planned on aligning himself with a Hydra scientist named Zola, and they knew where we could find him. You’d overheard the conversation and demanded to be let in on the action. Said you couldn't take the chance that it wasn’t the same man, and that you still owed every piece of Hydra trash a swift kick in the pants on principle alone. So help us, Natasha and I agreed with you. We argued with Peggy to get you a spot on the Quinjet and a chance at payback. But if we had known that that would’ve been the last time we’d see you, well, I would’ve locked you up myself to keep you safe. I know Tasha feels the same.”

“Forgiven, forgotten,” James replied, at a loss for what else he could possibly say. His mind was already occupied with the hazy afterimage of a younger version of the doctor-handler leering over him as he lay strapped to a wooden table, his left side smoldering with pain and fire, surrounded by an old shipwreck. Beady little eyes assessed him over cracked glasses with obvious avarice. _“Welcome back Soldier, my Fist of Hydra.”_

“Do you really mean that Bucky?”

“Of course, it’s all water under the bridge.” He practically gagged on the words but managed to force them out.

“Uh, well thanks man, I appreciate you being so understanding.” Clint appeared to accept the apology. James did not see the considering look Clint slanted at him out of the corner of his eye, he was too busy nodding with relief that that seemed to be the end of it.

He should have realized it wouldn’t have been that simple. Blissfully unaware of how he had mismanaged the exchanged and positive that he had successfully navigated this latest curveball with perfect ease, he set about patting himself on the back for a job well done. They finished watching the film, drinking their brandies. It was while they were sipping away that the thought occurred to James that a smoke would pair nicely with the smooth burn of the alcohol. But he didn’t want a cigar. What he really wanted right then was a Lucky Strike. The thought brought him up short, causing James to pause mid-sip, then look covertly over at Barton, hoping that he hadn’t noticed him freezing. James couldn’t ever recall smoking a cigarette before, let alone having a preferred brand.

Evidently at some point in his past he had been a habitual smoker, enough so that his body remembered the sensation fondly. It was more than enough to throw him for a loop, something that was happening more frequently these days.

Clint - who had been content to allow their conversation to taper off after James’ rather abrupt brush off of his brother-in-law’s apology and subsequent explanation for James’ thirty-four year disappearance - appeared to be lost in his own thoughts as well. They had fallen into what James assumed was a companionable silence. (Having only ever experienced hostile silences before he might not be the best judge.) It continued even as they made their way back into the main living areas of the mansion after leaving the vault. James himself was preoccupied with thinking of ways he could sneak back down alone later that night without Barton breathing down his neck to really notice Clint’s absentmindedness. If James had been paying better attention, he would have enough sense to be wary of Clint’s sudden stillness. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been, and he would not have a chance to realize his mistake until later.

Right now James remained lost in his own thoughts until suddenly he blinked and discovered himself standing in the middle of the manor’s greenhouse. Somehow he had been handed a bottle filled with one of those barely tolerable protein shakes and had managed to drink half off it without noticing. Now he was standing just behind Rogers’ shoulder and was in the perfect position to watch him play Carter at chess. Looking at the board, James could clearly see how Steve could easily win in five moves or fewer, starting with using his bishop to capture Peggy’s queen. But instead of making the aggressive smart play, Steve used one of his pawns to capture a rook that posed no danger to his king. Without a second thought, Peggy used her queen to take his bishop, and Steve made an exaggerated grimace as if he’d missed that move and he was embarrassed. However, James would’ve sworn that the nurse had seen it and simply chosen not to make it. He took a chug of the protein shake and shuffled around the table to get a better view of the chess board.

“Hiya Buck,” Rogers greeted him and James could feel his cheeks flush at the nurse’s even shorter stupid nickname for his cover’s stupid nickname. A pair of brilliant blue eyes flickered at him, the corners crinkled with a hidden smile, before returning back to the board. James felt his breath hitch in reaction to having Steve’s attention directed towards him, as brief as it was. So taken in was James that he almost missed Steve failing to once again make the smarter play and choose once again to move an insignificant piece for little value.

James quickly concluded that Steve was deliberately tossing the game, and was doing so while making himself look like at best a confused beginner, at worst naturally inept. James had to wonder at the kind of strategist that would deliberately set themselves up to lose at chess, a game designed to show off one’s tactical know-how. To say that it gave James a sense of foreboding would have been a grave understatement.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps this wasn’t a scheme at all?

The sound of an arrow hitting its mark echoed down the range with a familiar thump. Clint felt more than heard it, as he had removed his hearing aids for the time being. He usually did when he went down to the range. It was his meditation time, the one place where he could go to relax and think without being disturbed by anyone or anything. He routinely removed his hearing aids as well, so that all he could focus on was the feel of the rosin on his fingertips and the twang of the bowstring.

Natasha knew what it meant when Clint sequestered himself away in the back of the house. She knew how important it was to him to have the time to think through a problem before coming to her to talk it out. He might not always be quick on the uptake but he wasn’t a fool. Just because he didn’t process things quickly like Tasha and wasn’t a genius like Stark or Bruce didn’t automatically make him a country bumpkin, for all that he looked the part.

“Forgiven.” Clint scoffed aloud, punctuating the statement by letting loose another arrow that perfectly hit its target.

“Forgotten.” Another arrow thudded into a bull’s eye as he moved on down the range, taking aim at an impossibly distant target.

“Water under the bridge,” he hissed, releasing yet another arrow that hit dead center in the last target. He turned to gather more arrows, only to find Rogers holding out a fresh quiver. Clint accepted it silently, unfazed to find that his space had been invaded. He might not have had his aids in, but the strategically placed mirrors on the ceiling above him provided a handy visual of anyone attempting to sneak up behind him.

“Rogers.” Clint was long past being self-conscious about how his voice sounded, especially when he couldn’t hear it for himself. He had probably mumbled, but that made no difference in the end.

_Sorry,”_ Steve signed, placing his right first against his chest with his thumb pointed upwards toward his chin and rubbing it in a circle. Clint did his level best to hide his shock at the discovery that Steve actually _**knew**_ American Sign Language. He had always assumed that Steve was too old a dog to learn new tricks. An assumption that probably said more about himself than about Steve.

_“I didn’t mean to startle you,”_ Steve continued, surprisingly fluid in his hand movements. Though that shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. Clint had noticed before how the man moved with an innate grace that belied his size. Sometimes watching him Clint was reminded of Natasha and her dancer’s grace. He’d always attributed it to being trained and molded into living weapons, since Bucky moved in a similar fashion.

“I appreciate the gesture, Steve, but you don’t have to sign. I can read lips.” Clint said, oddly uncomfortable with someone willing to be so accommodating without first putting up a fuss. (He’d come to expect and appreciate Natasha’s, Peggy’s, Gabe’s - even Bucky’s - willingness to sign when he didn’t feel up to using the hearing aids, but coming from anyone not in his immediate family, it was harder to accept).

“Oh,” Steve said, letting his hands fall to his sides, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. 

Clint had the distinct impression that he’d just kicked a puppy. “What can I do for you?” he asked rather sharply. He was doubly miffed now, because his ‘me time’ had been interrupted and because he also felt bad for unintentionally making Captain America sad.

“I wanted to talk to you about Bucky and what's happened to him.”

“So you _do_ believe he’s Bucky.” Clint accused. Deciding that this conversation required his undivided attention, he dug his hearing aids out of his pocket and put them back into place.

Steve squared his shoulders and firmed up his jaw in familiar stubborn determination. “Yes, I do.”

“Why not go to Peggy or Natasha with your speculations?”

“They’re too emotionally involved to be practical about this.” 

Clint shouldn’t have been startled by Steve’s blunt honesty — that was all the man had ever been since Clint met him. He’d been struck speechless when Peggy told them she had requested (aka instructed) Fury to recruit Steve as their inside man for this, believing it to be the absolute worst move they could make. He would have preferred trying their luck with Stark and his particular lack of subtlety; at least Stark understood the value of a strategically placed lie. But Pegs had insisted on her favorite Boy Scout, still so freshly defrosted in all the ways that mattered (as far as Clint was concerned). He had griped about that to Tasha (well out of the hearing of his mother-in-law - after all, he didn’t have a death wish).

Clint suspected that perhaps, just perhaps, he had underestimated Rogers since the moment the other man had walked into the house, and given a perfect impression of a stranger meeting his new employers for the first time. All wide-eyed and nervous, overly eager to make a good impression, but trying his damndest to hide that fact while coming across as a professional who knew what he was doing. Tasha had simply smirked knowingly when Clint expressed his admiration of Steve’s ability to act, while Peggy’s smugness was practically palpable, but he didn’t let that get under his skin. Clint had learned early on that Natasha knew everything — and whatever she didn’t know, her mother certainly would. Moreover, neither of them were inclined to share their knowledge until it suited them. He couldn’t decide whether that was a result of their training in spycraft or a quirk of personality Nat had picked up from her adoptive mother.

“And you think I’m not emotionally involved in this?” Clint asked, reserving judgement as to whether he should be annoyed or not by the implication.

“No. I think you’re capable of retaining some sense of practicality despite your feelings on the matter.” 

To be honest, Clint was flattered by the assessment. It wasn’t often that anyone recognized him as being practical. Then again, most people didn’t look past the fact that his preferred weapon was a bow and arrow and that he’d done most of his growing up under the red and white stripes of a circus big top.

“Oh, Steve, flattery just might get you _everywhere_,” Clint teased, to deflect from how touched he actually felt.

Steve looked away in an attempt to hide his blush. Part of Clint wanted to chuckle at the sight of Steve bashfully rubbing the back of his neck and the knowledge that he’d made _Captain America_ blush. The rest of him manfully resisted the urge, not wanting to undo whatever good impression he’d managed to make.

“I take it you don’t think he’s Barnes?” Steve asked.

Steve’s use of the more formal “Barnes” wasn’t lost on Clint, “Let’s just say I have some doubts.”

“Why?”

“Because Bucky Barnes has always been a bit of an asshole. Don’t get me wrong, he's a charmer and a good guy - I love him dearly - but he’s also an asshole. This guy, there’s nothing like that. And if this was Barnes, he wouldn’t put up with whatever the hell’s been going on with that doctor guy, or the standoffishness of Natasha and Peggy. He’d stand up for himself, get things aired out and squared away.” He shook his head. “This dude, he’s an imposter. Some run-of-the mill con artist. Take it from me, I know.”

“Yeah, but _how_ do you know?” Steve asked, going straight to the heart of the matter just like Clint had hoped he wouldn’t.

Clint turned back to the range and sunk another half dozen arrows around the ’heart’ of a straw dummy, the twang of his bowstring his only answer. As each arrow let loose he grew angrier.

How _dare_ Steve question what he knew about his own brother-in-law? More importantly, about his friend? Steve didn’t even _know_ the man. Who the fuck was he to judge Clint and his feelings on the matter?

“No offense, Steve, but you don’t know him. Not the **_real_**Bucky Barnes. You have this idealized version of your wartime pen-pal, and honestly that’s pretty one-dimensional. When did you ever just _talk_ to him, just shoot the shit? Hell, did you even ever _meet_ him? In person? No, you didn’t. You didn’t even fight with him. Because you didn’t have the time. You sure as hell had the balls to tell him where to go and how to plan his missions, though. Just like one of those stuffy old men who directed that horror show. Don’t deny it,” he said angrily, when Steve opened his mouth to say something. “I’ve read up on my history about _“Captain America”_. Any reputation you’ve earned as a hero is a lie.” He reconsidered. “So yeah, actually, full offense.”

Clint fell silent, a bit embarrassed. Outside of a generic desire to lash out at someone, he couldn’t have said where all that had come from. He hadn’t meant to unload all of that on Steve, and at one point he’d even tried to stem the tide of his rant. But much like the actual tide the vitriol just steamrolled right over any good intentions he might have had.

And Steve just took it on the chin. Like he always did. Which only served to enrage Clint further. Once, just once, he would’ve liked to see Steve lose his composure. Prove that there was actually a _person_ behind the persona.

“I’m afraid all you managed to read up on, Clint,” Steve said tightly, “was the propaganda surrounding Captain America. A part I was forced to play, by the way. I’d hoped that he would be seen as a good man, not a perfect soldier, and I did my best to embody that. But it seems that in my absence the opposite has happened.” He gave a twisted smile. “Amazing what an effect forty years of relentless propaganda can have on your best intentions.”

Clint swallowed hard. He wanted to continue venting at Steve, partly because he was the only one available but mostly because he was safe to rant at, but he held himself back.

“Speaking of remarkable things,” Steve continued, either unaware of or choosing to politely overlook Clint’s inner turmoil. “It’s remarkable that Barnes is capable of functioning right now. Given what was done to him, his mind is probably more like an etch-a-sketch than anything else. It might be that he just doesn't remember how to be himself. Now, I’m no expert here, but I can’t help but wonder if you’re so busy waiting for _your_ version of Bucky to return that you’re missing out on getting to know him for who he is now. The old Bucky, the one you knew, might not exist any more, not because of what he’s gone through but simply because he was gone for thirty-four years and people change.”

“I am aware of that,” Clint snapped, vacillating from contrition back to anger. How self-righteous of Steve to lecture _him_. God, Stark was right — the guy really could be a sanctimonious prick.

“Then I would think you’d be more patient,” Steve countered calmly, though Clint could see a tic in his jaw that belied his tranquil facade. “Especially since the two of you have brainwashing in common.”

Clint paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and reminded himself to actually _listen_ to what Steve was saying instead of just reacting to it.“OK. What do you mean by that?” he asked, knowing he was going to regret opening Pandora’s box.

Before Steve was even halfway through the long litany of his observations, Clint switched to the explosive arrowheads. The regular ones were no longer cutting it for him.

** ~***~**~***~**

James waited until everyone in the house was otherwise occupied before sneaking out of his room and down to the main floor. He was determined to get into the vault and out with as much gold as he could carry. He couldn’t leave the Barton-Romanov estate soon enough, and the quickest way to facilitate that was by achieving that particular objective. The manor and its occupants were doing a number on his head; he hadn’t had his priorities straight since the last recalibration. Not that James actually _wanted_ to experience that again, in the near future or ever. For the most part he enjoyed having an identity separate from his usefulness. But it was a complication and a burden he wasn’t capable of dealing with just now. Existence was damn hard, and there was a certain appeal in remaining a nameless, thoughtless, _**soulless**_, gun. To be told where to go and what to do, a weapon pointed at a target and fired.

James paused outside the youngest child’s bedroom and listened long enough to confirm that that Natasha woman was reading him a bedtime story, just as on previous evenings. Then again outside of the doors of the older son, the daughter, the old woman. Just to confirm that they were all at least in their rooms if not already asleep. As he stepped off the main staircase there came a muffled explosion from somewhere in the back of the house.

He whipped around and crouched into a defensive stance, freezing there for a few agonizingly slow minutes before straightening up and continuing on to the library and the vault. As he stalked down the hallway his eyes were caught by his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. In the mirror, just over his left shoulder, was reflected a pair of paintings with a very familiar face. James must have passed them a thousand times, but for some reason it was only now that they captured his attention. He turned around to stare at the portraits, utterly entrapped.

The one on the left was of a well-built man with lanky dark-brown hair and a worrisome pallor. Pale blue-grey eyes stared out at the viewer above the weight of lovingly rendered dark circles that spoke to a level of exhaustion that went beyond the physical. James stared into those eyes and felt them bore back into him and catch upon something in his brain, like barnacles scraping over bare skin.

The portrait on the right was as different from the other as night and day, even though their subject was the same man. In this portrait the man was younger and slimmer, clearly still growing into himself. His hair was cut short and carefully coiffed, shiny and thick as opposed to the straggly oily mess of its older counterpart. The eyes, while still pale blue-grey, were so lively that James would have sworn he heard laughter.

Together the portraits caught hold of him with a fierceness that made it impossible for him to look away. He felt somehow rubbed raw by both. It was like peering at one of those find-the-difference puzzles, but the most glaring difference wasn’t the amount of light in the eyes but the man’s left arm. In the portrait on the right, the younger version, the man’s arm was flesh and blood, while in the other his arm was metal, with armor plating that could have rivaled a tank.

Memory hit him like a runaway freight train. He felt the phantom weight of that metal monstrosity pulling at him, bending his spine, and the urge to lean right to counterbalance it was almost irresistible. For a moment he felt himself in freefall, reaching out for a handhold, relived the blinding agony of his arm snapping like a withered root as the weight of his body and gravity pulled against the joints. The sound of it breaking was louder than a gunshot and his whole being rocked with the recoil. 

James stood rooted to the spot, lost in his own mind.

It was almost more than he could process. He’d had a real _flesh and **bone**_ arm once (_once!?!_). What was he supposed to make of such a revelation? Some part of him must have suspected it, deep down, for he had always treated that arm as though it wasn’t entirely his own. Gestures made with that hand, its reflexes, nothing was as smooth and effortless as with the other, but he’d never put too much thought into the discrepancy. That was just the way things were. Which raised the question: how did his current arm work? If there was an answer to that question, James wasn’t equipped to provide it.

He blinked owlishly down at the scrimshaw limb that occupied the space beyond his left socket, hoping that staring at it might reveal an answer. Instead, in a nightmarish montage, he saw both the metal and flesh arms superimposed over the scrollwork-engraved whalebone and metal gears. Only vigorous training kept him from attempting to claw the thing off right then and there. It didn’t prevent him from jerking back in surprise, however. The motion dislodged a memory of how he’d lost the metal limb. There had been a flash of heat, the sudden light from an explosion, the searing pain of overheated metal cutting through metal, and finally the sudden chill of the ocean as he dropped into it like a human cannon ball.

“Trouble sleeping?”

James whipped around, a knife appearing like magic in his hand, to find himself face to face with Natalia? Natasha? Self-consciously, James put the knife away and tried to act like nothing had happened. He wasn’t surprised she had managed to sneak up on him and startle him so badly. The red-headed ballerina had always been the most capable of all the little girls. That was one of the reasons why he couldn’t leave her behind.

Dumbly he nodded, too caught up in trying to sort out the mess of information in his head and where it was coming from to properly pay attention to anything else.

“Walk with me, James,” Nathasha said, extending her hand to take his arm, and James offered it automatically, noticing as he did so the hooded cape draped over her shoulders. Taking his arm Natasha gently steered him towards the back porch and then out into the night and the hidden depths of a family cemetery.

They walked in silence for a while, each of them occupied by their own thoughts. James had the distinct impression that Natasha was waiting for him to regain some semblance of equilibrium before she went about knocking him off kilter again. They passed by the first three or four rows of gravestones before she spoke.

“Timothy ‘Dum-Dum’ Dugan.” She pointed to a tombstone with the image of a bowler hat carved above the name. “Jim Morita,” she indicated another grave. “James Montgomery Falsworth, Jacques Dernier. These men together with Gabriel Jones, Margaret Carter, and James Buchanan Barnes,” she paused to give him a pointed look out of the corner of her eye, “formed the Howling Commandos. Rogue soldiers, masters of guerilla warfare, reckless fools who risked life and limb to change the tide of a war. History remembers them as heroes, and they were. But they were also a band of idiots. Roots, James. Lest we forget.”

She guided him further into the cemetery, coming to a halt beside a gravestone that featured a statue of a cat curled into a ball with one paw over its face. 

“Your beloved Muerto,” Natasha said. “After that last mission he was simply a different Flerken. He wouldn't purr, he wouldn’t hunt. He even stopped playing pranks on Clint by stealing things and tucking them away in his pocket dimension. That’s how much you mean to this family.”

Obviously she thought she was telling him something of significance, but James didn’t know what to make of it all. He kept his misgivings to himself, however, and silently allowed her to continue leading him down the well-worn path, with its overgrown crabgrass and general unkempt appearance. They turned a corner and came upon the heart of the cemetery. The path ended at the stone steps of an old family mausoleum that looked as if it had always been there, waiting for him for centuries, and prepared to continue doing so until the end of the line. It was constructed of seamless marble, shaped like a hexagon, and above the arched doorway was a Latin inscription in delicate-looking letters.

“And our credo: _ “Normalis est illusio; quaes est normalis ad aranea est chao ad musca”_ Normal is an illusion; what is normal for the spider is chaos to the fly.” Natasha paused, giving him a moment to take that in, then continued. “Not just pretty words. You understand, don’t you?”

“Completely.”

But James did not understand at all. He spent the rest of the night lying awake on the far-too-comfortable-to-be-restful bed he’d been given trying to puzzle out what it was he had agreed to. The only thing he understood for sure was that his mission was a failure. The family had recognized him for the phony that he was. Somehow he’d given himself away. Could it really be considered paranoia if it had been proven to be true?

From what he’d been able to put together so far, he gathered that they’d lost their precious James Barnes during a mission to which Barnes hadn’t been assigned initially, but had pushed to be part of out a sense of unfinished business. They felt incredibly guilty about Barnes’ disappearance but were equally suspicious, in their own ways, of his sudden return. They didn’t _trust_ him, simply because his reappearance seemed too good to be true.

Just as he couldn't trust whatever scraps of memory he’d managed to unearth in the last few weeks. Because they were too good to be true.

The one fact he could latch onto was that his problems had worsened exponentially with the intervention of his so-called nurse and Rogers’ inability to follow Zola’s treatment protocol. James (he didn’t understand why he continued to call himself that, other than that despite all his misgivings it _felt_ right) wasn’t naive. He realized that Rogers was a handler. But he wondered whose interests the nurse was meant to protect. He could see no purpose behind causing such a major malfunction as the one he was now experiencing. It was not beneficial to Hydra and their interests in the least. He was functioning at a suboptimal level at best right now, if not outright nonfunctional. The Fist of Hydra was not meant to feel conflicted. It was not meant to feel at all.

And yet he did. In so many ways.

One of those conflicts about which James had too many feelings was Rogers himself. Naturally, he was confronted with the man first thing in the morning, ‘waking up’ from a sleepless night. Rogers was lingering in the upstairs hallway wearing tight jeans and an annoyingly soft-looking oatmeal cable knit sweater that had seen better days, if the small holes and slight pilling were any indications. Rogers looked comfortable and approachable in that moment, and James saw red. He strode towards him with the single-minded focus he usually reserved for stalking a target, grabbed the man by the shoulders, backed him up into the nearest wall, and pinned him there with his own bodyweight.

“Good morning, James,” Rogers said mildly. “Sleep well?”

“_**You! ** _ – What have you _done_ to me?” James demanded, somehow managing not to shout. “This is all your fault!” He emphasized the accusation by lifting Rogers’ shoulders and slamming them back into the wall. “Because of you and your inability to follow simple instructions ” —

James cut himself off abruptly, acutely aware of how close he had come to giving everything away. He might not have been expected to exercise as much independent thought as the Soldier, but he’d been drilled to protect the mission objective at all costs. It was the second most important thing next to successfully completing a mission; even his own safety paled in comparison. But if Rogers was working for Hydra, then he already knew the mission objective – as a handler he probably knew more than James. And if he wasn’t…if he was a plant... then the last thing James wanted to do was hand him the necessary ammunition to truly ruin him.

“Because of me what, Buck?” Rogers asked, slowly bringing his hands up to gently grasp James’ wrists. He made no move to break James’ grip, ,just softly cradled his wrists in warm fingers. Rogers’ touch sent a shudder through him, though James couldn’t have said if it was in anticipation or rejection. There was something about his name spoken in Rogers’ low voice that undid him. Involuntarily he shook his head in answer to an unspoken question, then created a little space between them by leaning back on his heels. He did not, however, let Rogers up from the wall. Nor did he lower his arms.

He took a deep breath. “Everything is wrong,” he said. “”Nothing _feels_ right. This isn’t... this... I’m a fraud,” he finished angrily. He hadn’t meant to admit that to anyone, let alone Rogers, and he ducked his chin in embarrassment, staring at the man’s chest instead of those piercing blue eyes. His gaze caught on the pattern of the oatmeal sweater and he wondered if it was as soft as it looked. Involuntarily his eyes trailed up, towards the stretched-out neckline and the exposed peak of a collar bone. He was tempted to lay his head down right there, beneath Rogers’ chin, close his eyes and let all his troubles slough off him. Would it be as comfortable to rest there as it looked? Would he finally feel safe, surrounded by Rogers’ warmth? James wanted to find out. He was so tired, and Steve was right there, looking so soft and so approachable, surely he wouldn’t mind?

“You’re right.” Steve’s low voice interrupted James’ growing fantasy, and he dragged his eyes away from the pulse in Steve’s throat to stare up at him in shock. He felt his mouth fall open and closed it abruptly with a bite of his lip. He _knew_ it. Rogers had _**known**_ he was a fake. “Except for one thing: you’re not a fraud, Bucky.”

“I’m not?” The sigh of relief that tore through him caused James to sag forward, leaning into Steve. He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to be told he _was_ James Buchanan Barnes until he heard it.

“No, you’re not,” Steve reassured him. “You’ve just been struggling with some misplaced feelings of guilt. And frankly, that’s normal.”

“I have? It is?” He leaned further into Steve with each question.

“Yes. But here’s the kicker: you don’t _have_ to.” Steve smiled. “There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about — but you do, because you’re a good man.”

“I don’t? I am?” Closing the last few inches between them, James finally achieved his goal of resting his head on Steve’s shoulder. He let his eyes fall shut.

“Of course, Buck,” Steve’s voice, low and firm, rumbled through him, and James closed his eyes to better lose himself in the sensation. “You love your family, deeply, and that’s why you feel so conflicted over resenting them for not finding you sooner. It’s an understandable conflict, natural even, but you shouldn’t let it eat away at you.” Steve punctuated his words by gently squeezing James’ wrists, where he still held them, though James’ arms were now hanging down at their sides. “Everything has changed for you, and at the same time it’s still so painfully familiar. It’s no wonder you’ve become wary, angry, suspicious of everyone’s motives. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, because in your mind it has to, right? There’s no way it wouldn’t. You’re working through the trauma of what you experienced all those years you spent lost in the Bermuda Triangle, Bucky – that’s why everything feels wrong. You just haven’t found your footing yet. Your family knows this, they’re only trying to give you the space you need to heal. And that’s... well, that’s love, Buck.”

Steve’s voice had grown softer and almost wistful as he spoke, and James wondered suddenly if Steve was speaking from his own experience. He opened his eyes to look up caught again by that firm jawline. The muscles flexed as Steve swallowed around something else he apparently couldn’t bring himself to say just yet. Before James could decide whether he should break the small silence, Steve’s hands slid up from his wrists to just above his elbows, then gently pushed Jamesaway until he was standing on his own.

“You just gotta be a little bit more patient with yourself, ya big lug,” Steve concluded affectionately, patting James on the cheek with a flash of that cheeky little grin. He gently moved James to the side, and walked away down the hallway towards breakfast.

James was left standing there watching him go, having arrived at the irrefutable conclusion that the kid was a punk.

But he hadn’t shied away from touching his bad arm.

That had to _mean_ something. Something **important**. James must mean _some**thing**_ to him. Right?

“Hate to see him go, love to watch him leave,” a scratchy voice commented from somewhere above him. James looked up to see the raccoon squatting in a corner, one arm draped around the neck of a gargoyle, the other spread out against the wall to brace himself.

“Ah, c’mon, ol’ stone face! Don’t gimme that look, you know exactly what I mean.” Rocket cocked his head to the side and gave James an exaggerated leer.

“Uncle Bucky?” The young voice drew James out of his musings and he turned to see Thor watching him. For a moment he felt anger flare to life again — was he never once allowed a moment alone? — but quickly squashed it.He gave the boy a nod.

“Are you ready to come down to breakfast?”

Rocket cackled. “Oh, he’s certainly ready to” —

“I am Groot.” The tree-like butler scooped the raccoon out of his corner, like dusting up a spider web, and deposited him on a gnarled shoulder covered by a nappy suit coat.

James had no problem guessing what he’d been insinuating, and didn’t much care for it one bit. Still, his irritation was mixed with fondness. Teasing, good natured teasing, was something a family member or a friend did to you. If you thought a stranger was pretending to be your long lost relative you wouldn’t tease him. No, you’d watch them like a hawk, waiting for them to mess up.

“Uncle Bucky?” Thor asked again.

“Yeah, kiddo, let’s go.” He held out the scrimshaw hand to the boy, wondering if he’d shy away from touching it like so many others had done. Thor didn’t hesitate at all, just grabbed hold of the hand with a surprisingly crushing grip for a child and practically dragged Bucky towards the stairs.

A warmth spread throughout Bucky’s chest as he allowed his nephew to lead him down to the breakfast table, the boy chatting happily away about some band whose t-shirt he was wearing. Apparently the _Thundering Ents_ were his favorite band of all time and he didn’t care what Volstagg said, they were going to make it big one day. Bucky listened, surprised at how touched he was by Thor’s enthusiasm and the fondness he felt for the kid in that moment. Until then he’d refused to allow himself to feel anything for the quirky Barton-Romanovs. He hadn’t wanted it to be anything more than a mission for him. But now, now, Bucky couldn’t deny the fact that they felt less like marks and more like people he could care about, deeply.

For the first time in a long time, Bucky started to feel hopeful. Started to believe that he was a _real_ boy, that he _could_ have good things, because he _deserved_ them.

The feeling lasted until they reached the kitchen and Bucky saw the tense line of Steve’s shoulders and the harsh glare he leveled at the occupants of the long kitchen table. Occupants that included Dr. Zola. The warmth that had slowly been spreading out from Bucky’s core stopped and congealed into a block of ice that sunk like lead into the pit of his stomach. Subconsciously he straightened his spine and came to parade rest, blanking his features into the unreadable mask of the Soldier. Zola, sensing the change, regarded him with the narrowed eyes of a predator spying the weakest animal in the herd, his gaze zeroing in on James’ hand which was still holding Thor’s. For a second James thought about letting go, but Thor’s grip tightened then, seeking reassurance from the person he saw as his uncle and therefore a source of safety. Bucky wasn’t about to let him down.

Zola could think what he wanted. It wasn’t as if it mattered — the man was going to take it all away from Bucky again by putting him into that machine and turning his mind into a barren wasteland covered in freshly fallen snow. Only this time, this time, it was going to be worse, because Zola was going to take this family’s money so he’d have enough funding to rebuild the chair. 

There would be no returning from that for Bucky.

“James,” Peggy greeted him, smiling to see how close he was standing to the boy. “Dr. Zola was just reminding us that your visit, unfortunately, wasn’t intended to be permanent.”

Bucky admired the way she managed to sound so pleasantly chipper while clearly annoyed. It was a rare talent.

“Does he really have to go?” Thor asked, clinging tight to Bucky’s arm.

“Yes, he does,” Zola answered, not bothering to look at the kid, his attention focused on Bucky and Steve.

Bucky kept his own gaze trained on the bare expanse of the wooden table. He couldn’t tell what Steve was doing but based on the hostile energy he could sense emanating from that corner of the room Bucky, he’d lay odds that Steve was glaring.

“Well, if he must leave then we will mark the occasion,” Peggy declared, turning to her daughter.

“We’ve planned a farewell party, invited the whole clan,” Natasha added, picking up the conversation.

“What a lovely gesture.” Zola sounded like he wanted to shove the words down Bucky’s throat.

“We’re a family again, and we owe it all to you, Dr. Zola,” Clint chimed in with a smarmy grin that read as insincere to anyone who knew him well.

“Please - Armin.”

“Armin,” Clint repeated flirtingly (and even more insincerely).

Zola got up from the table abruptly with a vaguely murmured thanks to Peggy for her hospitality in sharing the meal, and a command of; “Steven, walk me out.”

Rogers followed Zola up the stairs out of the basement kitchen, and Bucky heard the doctor/handler’s enraged whisper: _ “Wipe him nightly between now and this foolish party.” _

Bucky allowed Thor to drag him towards a vacant chair at the table, meanwhile scanning the expressions of the adults already seated there to see if anyone else had overheard the doctor. Their lack of reaction told him they hadn’t.

Bucky sat down, mechanically accepting the plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns that Clint slid in his direction. He picked up a fork and absentmindedly pushed the food around while attempting to wrap his head around Natasha’s declaration. As far as he could remember no one had ever been pleased to see him. Usually his presence was greeted with screams, and likely sighs of relief when he left. No one had ever wanted to throw - 

“-- a whole party just for me.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Peggy reached across the table and gently clasped his hand in a grip that was meant to be comforting but felt claustrophobic. She opened her mouth to say something but Natasha cut in.

“Hela, play with your food.” The teenager sighed, rolling her eyes overdramatically, then picked up a spoonful of porridge and lobbed it across the table at her father. Clint casually dodged the projectile and lazily returned her volly with a crust of toast. Natasha smiled at their antics, but Peggy looked narrowly at her daughter, as if she wanted to scold Natasha for encouraging such silliness but hadn’t the heart to do so.

“But I’m not staying,” Bucky continued. “I can’t. You have a beautiful family. A wasteland. I’m in the way. Just the memory of a ghost. You shouldn’t want to celebrate that.”

“In the way? My brother?” Natasha demanded, outrage blazing in her green eyes.

“Why wouldn’t we celebrate?” Peggy said, releasing his hand. “After all these years, James, you’ve returned to us healthy and whole.” Bucky had to admire how she could say that with a straight face. ”Whole and healthy” was miles away from where he found himself right now. “That’s more than reason enough to celebrate.” 

“Natasha,” he said, appealing to her with the hope that she would be more reasonable. “Life is all fun and games right now. A moonlight mission, a dance in a graveyard. The stench of gunpowder and decay. But things change.”

“And that is why this is _до завтра_, not a farewell party,” Natasha said, her tone leaving no room for argument. Clint gazed at her lovingly, obviously appreciating her use of Russian, and began to kiss his way up her arm. Natasha ignored him in a way that spoke not of irritation but of long familiarity and deep fondness for his reaction. “Those years apart, James. We can’t do that again. But if you need time on your own, we’ll respect that.”

Bucky looked her in the eye and tried to discern whether she was telling him the truth. He saw no lie in those crystal-clear green eyes, and after a moment nodded his understanding. In that moment he felt as if the two of them had entered into an unspoken contract. Bucky felt no misgivings in making such a compact with Natasha; he knew she would honor it.

Their brief moment of understanding was interrupted by Loki asking Thor to pass the salt.

Natasha turned to her youngest and asked, slightly scolding, “What do we say?”

“Now!” Loki added.

Bucky shook his head. Family — what could you do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first, I went to Google Translate for the Latin but one of my betas was kind enough to correct me thank you so much!!
> 
> I still relied on Google for the Russian in this chapter:
> 
> до завтра = till tomorrow


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn’t love a party?

For the most part, Steve ignored the household’s preparations for the upcoming party. He had other more important things to worry about, namely Tydings having yet to cough up the CD with the recording of Barnes’ trigger words. And although that was exactly what Steve wanted, it proved a problem since Zola had demanded that Barnes be “recalibrated” on a nightly basis just the week before. His solution had been to rig Bucky to the biofeedback machine nightly, as instructed, but play him a different mix disc every night, featuring Top 100 hits over the last several decades. So far, they’d managed to work their way up from the 20s; Steve had started in a decade he assumed would be familiar to Bucky, up to the 80s.

There was a good chance that he might’ve been using the same mix discs that Sam had made for him when he’d learned that Steve’s musical taste was still stuck in the past. He wouldn’t admit that one way or the other.

Bucky appeared to respond well to the parade of music through the decades. Erroring on the side of caution, Steve avoided any and all classical compositions. When he learned that Natasha had planned on hiring a band for the planned “farewell ball”, he’d let slip that classical music would be a bad idea. Steve figured that Clint would have told her everything they had already discussed by now, and Natasha certainly seemed to know why Steve would make such a comment. But her reply had only been one of her patented mysterious smirks.

Steve learned the reason for it when he stumbled across a group of tweens and teenagers setting up a stage in one corner of the ballroom with an excited Thor hovering around them.

“What’s all this?” Steve asked the excited boy.

“This is the _Thunder Ents_,” Thor told him with a grand gesture meant at the group surrounding the assembled little stage. “Mother said that they could play Uncle Bucky’s party!” Thor’s enthusiasm was catching, and Steve found himself growing just as excited by the idea. Hela, however, did not seem to think that Steve should share in it, or at least she didn’t automatically expect Steve to be just as thrilled by the prospect as they so obviously were.

“Lay off it, Thor, he’s not here to talk about your little band crush, he’s here to collect Uncle.” She finished scolding him with a short gesture towards the westward wall where a sleeping Bucky sat propped up in a chair in the shadow of a decorative pillar.

“Well, nobody said he can’t do both,” Thor shot back, “you’re not the boss, Hela!”

“But I am the oldest.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“I am Groot.” The butler interrupted their growing argument, stepping out from behind the drum kit he’d been fiddling with. Hela gave a cocky smirk at her younger brother before she twirled on her heel, ran her fingers through her long dark hair, and sauntered off.

Thor pouted for a moment before turning his entreating blue gaze up at Steve.

“Don’t worry pal, I’m looking forward to hearing them play,” Steve found himself reassuring the kid. Steve fell for that puppy-dog look, hook, line, and sinker. He was a bit of a sap, as Gabe and Sam liked to teasingly remind him, but that didn’t bother Steve. Better a sap than someone who could unapologetically stand behind policy as the reason for why they allowed a good friend to be frozen for forty-one years.

“Fantastic!” Thor exclaimed going so far as to jump for joy and jostling Steve out of his musing. “You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Rogers, I **promise!!**” Steve felt a reluctant smile stretch across his face and could only hope that it didn’t look as uncertain as it felt. He could have kicked himself for giving the kid false hope when he didn’t know for certain if Natasha and Peggy would allow him to attend the festivities. Mission or no, Steve could only expect their hospitality to stretch so far. Before he could come up with a reasonable excuse to tell Thor why he might not make it, the kid had meandered back towards the band. Shrugging, he went to wake up Bucky. They were late for suit-fitting with Rocket, and the raccoon could be vicious when he felt like his demands were being ignored.

Steve found out exactly how far the family was prepared to stretch their hospitality after he woke Bucky from his catnap and dropped him off for his last fitting with Rocket. Hanging off the back of a closet door was the exact suit Steve had been forced to wear at the last charity event he’d attended as an Avenger. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to lie to Thor about seeing the _Thunder Ents_ inaugural performance.

He had to wonder about that, however. Just who’s hospitality was being extended. After all, If policy were really what had left Steve encased in ice, then he had a bridge in Brooklyn that Steve wanted to sell for a nickel. Truth was, Peggy hadn’t thought it was the smart play to leave two super soldiers lose in the world, not back then when Barnes had made that first miraculous return from being presumed killed in action. She had to decide which one she wanted to keep in play and naturally, she had chosen her son over a stranger who had become like a son to her.

Steve was smart enough to realize that that was always going to be the case once he’d finished their latest mission for him. And while he was always going to be grateful for the SSR and Project Rebirth because they had extended his life expectancy and quality of life by an exponential amount, he could recognize that they deliberately set out to take advantage of a poor orphan son of Irish immigrants who had nothing left to lose. Erskine might have genuinely wanted to give his serum to Steve and _only_ Steve, but Phillips and the rest of the Army brass (including Peggy to some extent) only agreed because they saw skinny Steve Rogers as a viable test subject and no big loss if things went suddenly pear-shaped.

Plus Steve now knew about Hydra (thanks to Zola and his inability to stop bragging) and recognized that the same cryo-freeze process used on him had also been used on Bucky. Which only made Steve wonder at what point **did** Hydra infiltrate SHIELD. Could it have been done as early as during the war years? And why hadn’t anyone noticed, unless they’d seen some kind of benefit from keeping their enemies closer than their friends.

In the end, Steve supposed it didn’t matter, what was done, was done. And if he was still bitter about it all, then in Steve’s mind, he had every right to be. He’d lost forty-one years of his life that he’d never be able to get back, all because the bureaucracy demanded that they have absolute control over the ‘weapon’ they had created. There was no doubt in Steve’s mind that if SHIELD had known where Barnes was during the Chitauri invasion of New York that they wouldn’t have defrosted Steve.

** ~***~**~***~**

The ballroom was a glittering confusing blur composed entirely of the strange and macabre, as couples twirled about the dancefloor like whirling dervishes. What Bucky found strange about the whole affair, however, was the fact that none of that registered as being outside of the realm of ‘normal’ to him anymore. Actually, what Bucky found more disconcerting was that such a large gathering of people could come together happily and find such joy in each other’s company.

The last time Bucky had seen more than twelve people gathered together in a room, the frown lines carved into people’s faces had rivaled the Grand Canyon. To see easily five times that number so unabashedly thrilled by each other’s company was more than enough to make Bucky stand frozen with indecision. He hovered alone with his confusion, hidden in the shadows beneath the arch of the ballroom’s entrance, pulling listlessly at the hem of the velvet suit jacket Mama - no, Peggy - had had Groot find and spruce up just for his use. Earlier in the week she had set the rickety butler the task of refitting an old tux to Bucky’s new measurements. Groot didn’t talk much, had no need to when Rocket did the majority of the talking for both of them. Now Buck had to wonder what was really normal: Hydra and their penchant for hiding their foulness underneath a thin veneer of fairness, or the Barton-Romanovs and their extended friends and family who embraced their oddities and everyone else's. 

He certainly knew which idea of normal he preferred.

“Bucky!” Clint exclaimed having finally spotted Bucky in his hiding place. “C’mon, no need to be such a wallflower.” With a hand hovering at his back Clint ushered Bucky into the room and amongst the crowd of strangers who had all known James Barnes at one point or another, in a different lifetime. Bucky braced himself while trying not to seem obvious about it as the swirling crowd opened up before them then swallowed them whole.

** ~***~**~***~**

Steve entered the crowded ballroom and couldn’t decide where to look first. He was glad that he’d decided to use one of the smaller side entrances to the room and not the grand entrance with its elaborate archway and double doors. By doing so Steve was able to arrive unnoticed and in a prime position to observe everyone already there.

He was beginning to suspect that his teammates’ silence about their family stemmed from more than just a wish for privacy and out of a concern for how their extended family would be received. A theory Steve developed about the time he spotted the contortionist out in the middle of the dancefloor. The rest of the dancers nonchalantly moved around her as if having someone form intricate shapes with their body in time to the music was commonplace. Which, he supposed, in a way it was. After all, that was what dancing was in its simplest definition, but Steve didn’t normally expect to find someone with an arm twisted up behind their back and an ankle at their ear. But what did he know, he’d never had an opportunity to dance with anyone before. Certainly not in his youth when there were dance halls aplenty but he’d been too scrawny and sickly to be considered a desirable partner. During the war there had never been time for it. Steve’s gaze darted over the room and he spotted Hela dancing by the stage, not far from where Steve himself stood, making obvious eyes at the lead guitarist. Thor also stood by the stage, conducting a light show out of miniaturized bolts of lightning caught in glass mason jars. It made Steve smile to see the kid wearing black dress pants and a tunic length burgundy jacket with Thor’s customary _Thunder Ents_ t-shirt on underneath instead of a dress shirt.

Moving his attention away from the stage, Steve saw Loki out on the dance floor holding hands with someone Steve assumed to be an older cousin, and swinging their arms about in an attempt at a waltz wearing a black and green two-piece suit. Steve noticed Zola on the other side of the room by the refreshments table, looking irritated by the whole festive atmosphere and trying to cover it with a sickly smile that was more like a grimace. Steve avoided making eye contact with the Hydra scientist, allowing his gaze to skim over him and refocus on the crowd at large. He wanted to postpone the inevitable conversation about Barnes’ conditioning. Steve could practically feel how eager Zola was to take Steve to task for ‘breaking’ his favorite toy soldier.

Said favorite toy soldier was already out on the dance floor guiding Peggy in a careful two-step to the classic 1950’s rockabilly tune the band was currently covering. The moved together naturally, with an air of long familiarity, both of them grace personified. Steve could have happily spent the rest of the night just watching them float across the polished parquet floor. He had the sudden desire to draw a picture of them, and had to fight the urge to go find a piece a paper and a pencil so he could do so right then and there. It was a familiar compulsion, and he might have already filled more than one sketch page with drawings created in the dead of night when insomnia kept him awake.

Wild hand gestures just glimpsed out of the corner of his eye drew Steve’s attention to a cluster of five people that included Clint and Natasha standing not far from him. Slowly following the natural ebb and flow of the crowd, Steve made his way closer to the group and positioned himself in a place where he could easily overhear them without being obtrusive. Studying the group, Steve realized that he recognized the strawberry blonde-haired woman wearing the blue silk dress from his mission briefing as Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts. She had been the individual who tipped SHIELD off to a potential James Barnes impersonator. That made it easy for Steve to place the man with the wild gestures. Justin Hammer, the family’s lawyer, had long been suspected of being dirty, possibly even of being in Hydra’s pocket, but there had never been enough evidence that could have put those suspicions to rest one way or the other. When Steve had read through his brief and saw the various marks against Hammer he had wondered why the Barton-Romanov’s hadn’t just fired him outright. But then he realized that their goal had been to con the con man. Gabe had always favored that play more so than Peggy, although she had been quick to incorporate it when useful. And from what Steve’s learned about Clint’s history, it didn’t surprise him that Clint would happily follow in his father-in-law’s footsteps by giving a potential enemy just enough rope to hang themselves. It was an interesting choice to have invited the lawyer to a farewell party, but Steve could see the strategic value in it. At a party Hammer’s guard was more likely to be lowered and it would be easier to catch him in a slip-up. In theory.

Steve could easily picture either Peggy or Gabe, or Natasha and Clint, or even Fury orchestrating this. The problem was that he could just as easily picture Bucky getting caught in the crossfire if anything were to go wrong. Something that he was willing to bet that none of them really accounted for as much as they all wanted to have Barnes safely returned to them.

Like a lodestone, the thought of Bucky made Steve seek him out again, and while he was still out on the dance floor, he was no longer dancing with Peggy. It looked like at some point Gabe had stepped in to reclaim his wife, and Bucky had been left to be accosted by –

“Tony Stark!” Hammer exclaimed sounding for all the world as if he had shouted directly in Steve’s ear, even though he was still a good three feet away from the lawyer and tucked away out of sight in a decorative alcove. (Steve had a fairly good view of everyone else and he could only hope that no one could see him unless they truly thought to look for him. People tended to overlook a big man standing quietly in the shadows as long as he projected an aura of benevolent indifference. Sort of like how no one really expected a happy-go-lucky golden retriever to be a decent guard dog until they learned the hard way).

“Holy Cow! Potts, look it’s really him.”

“Would you like an introduction?” Clint asked, already raising an arm and gesturing for Tony to come join them. Hammer just stared at his client, flabbergasted by the offer.

Without missing a beat, Tony veered off from the dance floor and in their direction, dragging Bucky along with him by a convenient hold on his elbow. Bucky already looked resigned at being towed about in Tony’s wake. It was a feeling that Steve had grown overly familiar with in his short acquaintanceship with the younger Stark. When they were nearly at the group, Bucky leaned over and muttered something in Tony’s ear that made the genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist-Avenger nod and chuckle in reply.

Watching Bucky interact with ease socially, compared to where he had been at the beginning of the month when Steve first arrived, caused a little bubble of pride to catch in Steve’s throat. Steve was starting to see the shadow of the man he’d been before slipping through the cracks of the shell Hydra reduced him to. And if Steve noticed the difference, having never really known Bucky as he had been, as Clint so eloquently pointed out to him, then his family certainly saw it. And whereas they might be holding out hope that Bucky would recover enough to become the same good-natured casanova with a heart of gold he had been before life put him through the wringer; Steve knew better. The best that could be hoped for was that Barnes would eventually make peace with what had happened and reinvent himself as some sort of amalgam of the different versions of him. Steve thought it was rather unfair of them to expect Bucky to return to who he had been, especially since Nathasa and Clint both had personal experience with the process themselves.

“Alrighty-roo, Bucky-roo.” Tony’s joviality cut through Steve’s internal tangent, “just swing by the Tower sometime and we’ll get you set up with some pretty sick upgrades.” He finished by slapping Bucky’s back hard enough to make the other man stagger. Bucky nodded then stepped away from the inventor, getting swept up in a whirl of people and lost to Steve’s watchful gaze.

“Tony,” Clint redirected both Tony and Steve’s attention to the fivesome, “I’d like to introduce you to Justin Hammer.”

Justin surged forward then and scooped up Tony’s unoffered hand in both of his, shaking it vigorously. “Tony Stark, in the flesh!” Hammer looked like he was two seconds away from soiling himself he was so excited. “Look at me! I’m shaking Tony Stark’s hand! I just can’t believe it!”

“Neither can I,” Tony replied through a politely frozen grimace just before prising his hand free.

“Didn’t realize you were such a fan of Stark’s.” Natasha demurred an edge to her voice that was almost mocking. Steve knew her well enough to realize that she was teasing both Tony and Hammer.

“Of course I am! Of America’s foremost self-made man, who wouldn’t be? It’s really remarkable, Tony, how you came back from that kidnapping and pulled yourself up by your bootstraps, very American Dream of you.”

“Well Justin, since your such a fan, let me share with you some wisdom I’ve recently learned,” Tony replied in his customary rapidfire brushoff. “There is no such thing as a self-made man in today’s enconomy. I have the inheritance left to me from my parents and the labor of my employees to thank for the wealth I do have. Odd that you believe I would utilize my personal trauma to turn a profit, but clearly you haven’t paid much attention to the Stock Market lately. Accountability doesn’t sell as well as weapons, pal. Also I have found that anyone trying to convince me that just because I was the lucky son of bitch to be born with the Stark name somehow equates to the American Dream is a fascist.” Tony had never been one to pull a punch. “Who is this absolutely stunning woman?” He turned towards Miss Potts and acted as though he’d just noticed her.

Knowing Tony she would’ve been the first person he noticed.

“Oh, that’s just my assistant Miss” - 

“Pepper Potts, Mr. Stark.,” Pepper introduced herself not by reaching for Tony’s hand having noticed how he’d reacted to her boss manhandling him. She did however accept his handshake once Tony offered it.

“Potts, you applied to Legal but were told to come back once you had some more experience, I believe. How about I steal you away and we can discuss some employment opportunities? That is if Justin here doesn’t have any objections?”

“No,” Justin replied sounding lost, “not at all.”

“Perfect! May I have this dance, Miss Potts?” Pepper nodded her consent and Tony whisked her away immediately. The rest of the group and Steve, watched as they were swallowed up by the crowd.

** ~***~**~***~**

Bucky, accustomed to scoping out a room for anything that might not belong (more often than not that was him), noticed Steve lurking in the shadows of an alcove not long after Tony started to steer him off the dance floor. Bucky saw Tony’s end goal, a group of five consisting of the lawyer Hammer, the Potts lady, Clint, Natasha, and the bald woman from the old video reel Clint had showed him. Between these two options, Bucky was more comfortable with Steve than facing down a group of five that included one stranger, two marks, and two individuals who were at least tangentially aware of his mission.

He made his excuses to get away from ‘Cousin’ Tony, as the man had been introduced to him by Carter, and was grateful when Tony appeared to accept them. Bucky drifted back through the throng of extended family members (that he still had a hard time believing were actually related to him) in order to approach Steve from an angle at which he wouldn’t be able to see Bucky coming. It took him longer than he anticipated as he was continuously stopped by random individuals welcoming him home and wishing him well.

Eventually he reached his destination with Steve far too absorbed in his voyeurism to notice Bucky’s presence. That the opportunity to startle the man was far too great for Bucky to pass up.

“Spying, Nurse Rogers,” he murmured directly in Steve’s ear, careful not to lean against him. “And what medicinal purpose does that serve?”

Bucky had to give Steve some credit for not jumping at his sudden appearance, instead Steve’s muscles tensed, reflectively falling into flight mode at the unexpected sensation of Bucky’s breath brushing against his ear. While Steve was clearly prepared to react violently if he needed to, he retained enough control to turn and face Bucky without anything untoward happening. Bucky was secretly delighted to notice that the apples of Steve’s cheeks were dusted with a faint blush. Bucky took a step back in order to better appreciate how it looked.

“Seems like you’ve caught me red-handed there, Barnes.” Steve attempted to cover his embarrassment with a joke.

“No ‘seems like’ about it, Rogers,” Bucky replied easily, falling into the familiar rhythm of their banter. The familiar speech pattern had quickly developed between them as soon as Bucky started rediscovering what it felt like to feel human. “I’ve caught you fair and square, and you’ve avoided answering the question.”

“That’s because I have no answer. I was eavesdropping and you caught me at it.”

“You know curiosity killed the cat.” Bucky teased, leaning in further but careful to maintain enough distance.

“Depends on the cat,” Steve muttered crypticially.

“What?”

“Hhmm, nothing.”

Bucky stared at Steve, not believing him for a second, and trying to calculate a way to make the nurse talk. Shouldn’t be hard; Bucky knew many techniques designed to make anyone spill their most intimate secrets. Before he could decide what his next move might be, the sound of Natasha, now speaking closer to their hiding spot than where he’d last noticed her, derailed his train of thought.

“Clint, when was the last time we waltzed?” 

“Oh Tasha, hours,” he answered, sounding absolutely smitten and unbothered by letting anyone know it. “Hammer, Nebula, if you’d please excuse us.”

At that, Clint and Natasha went waltzing by, and Bucky reflexively pulled himself and Steve deeper into the depths of the alcove. It left them standing wedged in the back corner with Steve’s shoulder pressed against Bucky’s, causing their velvet jackets to rub together with every small movement either of them made with a surrshuring _swish-swoosh_.

Bucky, mesmerized by the sound, deliberately fidgeted to create it as often as he could. He liked having his arm pinned down under the weight of Steve’s bicep and shoulder, it was comforting. Same with the soft sound of velvet against velvet. So lost in that sensation, Bucky didn’t realize that something important had happened until he felt Steve stiffen next to him.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” A woman’s annoyed voice floated over them, capturing Bucky’s attention by the way it grated down his spine.

“No, haven’t a clue,” Hammer said, with his usual level of obnoxiousness.

“James is the older sibling, now that he’s back, he’s king of the castle again. It all goes to him, the house, the money - you name it.” The woman, Bucky assumed it was Nebula, was the speaker. “How like an older sibling, to sweep in out of nowhere and steal all the glory for themselves.” This last part she muttered mostly to herself.

Steve turned to him, and Bucky realized just how perfectly Steve’s jacket matched the color of his eyes, making it harder than usual for Bucky to look away. That stunning gaze made him feel safe and reckless at the same time. What harm was there in doing what he’d wanted when he had Steve here to lean on? If Bucky had still been thinking like the Soldier, he would have already abandoned this stranger who’d made him ascertain every detail in order to report what he’d had just learned to Zola. Nothing would have come before the mission. But instead, he was now lost in this bubble of their own creation, unwilling to stray.

Steve watched him in return, not shying away from the prolonged eye contact like so many were prone to do when faced with Bucky’s assessing stare. In fact, Bucky was the first to break eye contact. His gaze travelled over Steve’s features, like the Soldier would, slowly cataloguing everything he saw, from the tantalizing length of Steve’s overly long eyelashes to the delicate spray of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. A nose that had clearly been broken more than once and set wrong, judging by the bump that left it just shy from perfect. Then, lastly, to his mouth, with its plush lower lip and inviting pink color that was just asking to be bitten. Steve had his mouth parted slightly in preparation to say something, but Bucky couldn’t have cared less to hear whatever it was. Instead he reached out and grabbed a fistful of a velvet lapel. He pulled Steve up against him so that their mouths pressed together. Bucky had finally kissed him.

His lips were just as soft as Bucky thought they’d be. Nibbling at that pouty bottom lip produced the most satisfying little sigh from Steve, and Bucky had to bite at it. That caused Steve to groan and lay a hand alongside Bucky’s lapel, fingers digging into the straggling hairs that had fallen out of his bun at his nape. Bucky moaned at the delightful pressure and slipped his tongue in Steve’s mouth.

Steve jolted at the new sensation and Bucky broke their kiss long enough to pull back and rasp, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please tell me this is okay.”

“More than okay,” Steve replied breathlessly before dragging Bucky back into another kiss.

So caught up in each other were they that neither noticed they had gathered a small audience. At least not until that audience decided to make their presence known.

“Steven!”

** ~***~**~***~**

Loki had always known that the nurse had to have an alternative motive he just didn’t expect to discover that it was to grope his uncle. When Mother had asked him to find Uncle Bucky so that she and Father could toast him, the last thing Loki had anticipated was to find Rogers pinning Bucky against the wall, trying to devour the lower half of his face. Firstly, it looked weird and gross. Secondly Loki was pretty sure that Uncle Bucky didn’t like it.

So Loki did what he had always done when presented with a crisis, he went to tell Grandmama. Grandmama always kept a level head and would know exactly what to do.

Although it might have helped if Dr. Zola hadn’t stumbled across the same tableau before Loki had had a chance to properly explain everything to Grandmama.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hero prevails. A happy ending is earned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features art by the wonderful Raynaki. Please enjoy!

At the recommendation of Dr. Zola, they fired Nurse Rogers the Sunday following Uncle Bucky’s party with no notice and a refusal to give a reference. This was doubly cruel since they had required Mr. Rogers to move into the mansion in order to properly look after Uncle Bucky and were now kicking him out without any time to find somewhere to go. Mr. Hammer had argued that they shouldn't provide him with a severance package either, and Grandmama had seemed to agree with him, but at that Father had put his foot down.

The injustice of it all did not sit well with Loki. He understood that what had occurred between Uncle Bucky and his nurse was unprofessional and inappropriate, but Loki hadn’t thought it was enough to get Mr. Rogers fired. Unfortunately, the adults did not agree with his assessment. Mostly, however, Loki was stuck on the fact that it was Dr. Zola pushing for Mr. Rogers to be fired and Grandmama ultimately agreeing with him that had persuaded Mother and Father to do so. First, he did not think the decision was the doctor’s to make, and second, he didn’t care for the idea that it was so easy to cast someone aside. Hela and Thor, however, did not appear to be too perturbed by it all.

Perhaps he felt the unfairness keenly than Thor, or even Hela because he actually paid attention to how precarious their own positions as foundlings made them. Oh he knew, with every fiber of his being, that Mother and Father would _never **ever**_ willingly give him or his siblings up - they **loved** him and that was an irrefutable fact. But just because one knew and understood a fundamental truth essential to their own wellbeing, it did not make said truth immune to the doubts that liked to sneak about in the shadows and pounce when one least suspected it. But worst of all, to Loki’s mind, was how unfair firing Mr. Rogers was to Uncle Bucky. In this, at least, Hela and Thor agreed with him wholeheartedly. 

Also, Loki might have felt a bit of guilt gnawing away at him for the small role he might have inadvertently, accidentally...ok, was completely responsible for in Nurse Roger’s firing. 

Like rubbing salt into an open wound, three days later Mr. Hammer served Mother a pile of court orders stipulating that they were to vacate the manor immediately. Uncle Bucky, as the original heir, had decided to assert his rights and evict them — then went the extra step and added a restraining order. They were given one afternoon to pack up, taking only whatever possessions they could carry, and leave before the police would be called.

Loki had expected Mother to object. Many people made the mistake of assuming that just because Mother was small in stature she could be easily pushed around. But Loki had always known what a powerhouse Mother was, in every sense of the word. Moreover, she had never really cared for Mr. Hammer. Despite this, she had given Uncle Bucky (who had watched the proceedings with a hangdog expression, unable to look anyone in the eye) only the briefest glance, and accepted everything the lawyer told her.

Loki had found this just as wrong and unexpected as when he saw Rogers meekly accept his (metaphorical) pink slip. Mr. Rogers had taken the news of his firing quietly, which went against everything Loki had learned about the man during his many weeks of spying on him. Granted the nurse was capable of weathering Uncle Bucky’s flares of temper, which demanded extraordinary patience. More than once he’d seen Bucky, frustrated by his slow recovery and aggravated by whatever task had been asked of him, swear at his nurse in at least four different languages before calling the other man a “fucking punk” — and then doing exactly what had been asked of him in the first place. Loki had observed that Nurse Rogers could hold his ground and out-stubborn anyone. And he wasn’t afraid of pushing back, showing no hesitation or fear about getting right up in Uncle Bucky’s face, even though he had that mechanical prosthetic that had made Cousin Tony practically salivate with envy. Yet when Mr. Hammer told Rogers he was done, he had simply hung his head and gone to pack his bags without saying a word.

Watching Mother do the same gave Loki a stomach-souring sense of déjà vu. He couldn’t decide who was to blame for the sudden sense of loss that left him feeling unmoored from his own family: Mr. Rogers, Dr. Zola, Mr. Hammer, Grandmama, Grandfather, Uncle Bucky, Mother, Father...in a way, Loki supposed, they all shared the burden. But that brought him little comfort as he stood by the car watching Groot load their few possessions, holding Tydings tightly to his chest like a safety blanket. Tydings was kind enough to purr reassuringly for him.

It wasn’t like they were going to be homeless. Cousin Tony had offered them an apartment in Stark Tower until they were able to figure everything out, and Thor was already looking forward to it. Like it was some great big adventure. Loki wanted to be mad at his older brother for taking their misfortunes so lightly, but he understood. That was how Thor made sense of things: if everything was an adventure then nothing bad could ever happen. Thor was free to be the hero of his own story if he was always off adventuring.

But after nearly a week and a half under Cousin Tony’s roof Loki had had enough adventure to last him for quite a while. Tony’s house was all modern clean lines and sleek furniture. Loki missed the dreary creakiness of home with its dusty furniture and cobwebs in the corners. A quick conference with Hela and Thor, via a flick of an eyebrow and a twitch of the nose or a clench of the jaw, and the three of them decided something had to be done to stop this. Hela agreed to meet up with Rocket and ask to speak with Mother and Father, thus providing cover for Loki and Thor to sneak out and talk to Uncle Bucky. Surely his opinion in all of this mattered more than anyone else’s.

** ~***~**~***~**

Steve had done exactly what was asked of him, only to be summarily fired for his efforts. He couldn’t honestly say he was surprised by that particular outcome. He had known going in that eventually the mission would have to end. After all, it wasn’t like Peggy - let alone Natasha - would have advocated for him to continue as the family’s live in nurse, especially after he had provided her with all the proof she needed to confirm that the man claiming to be her long lost son was **indeed** her son. Once Steve had filed a report with SHIELD about the “good” Dr. Zola, his Hydra connections, and the evidence that yes, he was _that_ Armin Zola, his work was done.

As for Zola - _**ha!**_ Of course the man had demanded the family fire him. That was the only way he could retain any control over a situation that was rapidly falling apart around him. The idea that the Hydra doctor would have wanted, or even allowed, Steve to keep his job was _ludicrous_. Wait until Zola discovered just how badly Steve had sabotaged his precious machine - both Bucky and the device used to strip him of his humanity. He’d be screaming for Steve’s head on a platter.

Peggy was right. He’d done enough. More than enough.

Then why did he feel like he hadn’t accomplished anything at all?

None of that, however, explained why now, after a week and a half of radio silence following his humiliating dismissal, the security system (which he had never wanted but Howard, God rest him, had insisted on) was flashing a warning of a perimeter breach. Not once in the seven years since he’d been allowed to return to his place- — or, he imagined during the forty-one years he had been a living popsicle — had anyone bothered to accost him while he was at home. Even before his time in the freezer, guests had been a rarity.

Well, he wasn’t going to bother to change into something more appropriate for company. If they were going to be uncouth enough to come a-visiting without so much as a by your leave, then they could deal with what they found. Besides, Steve was just as capable of defending himself in navy silk boxers and a fancy dressing gown as he was while wearing military-grade body armor. 

That didn’t mean he had to be stupid about it, though.

Steve left the master bedroom and drifted down the hallway, stopping halfway down his crumbling home’s grand staircase. He rested a hand on the railing, making sure that the trail of his sheer powder-blue dressing gown fanned out around him so that the glorious feather trim couldn’t possibly be missed. He popped a hip and put the off-hand on it, which allowed the wide bell-shaped sleeve to slip past his wrist, the feather trim attached to it hanging in a heavy oval against his hip. The gown was cinched tightly at his waist, the deep v opening leaving his chest prominently on display.

Never let it be said that he was above doing things for the drama.

There he waited, rather impatiently, to see who thought it was a smart idea to bait him inside his own home. It didn’t really surprise him when he saw Natasha slipping through his formerly locked front door. Of all the people who might have approached him after the fiasco of Barnes’ farewell ball, of course it would be Natasha. Peggy would be too caught up in the vindication of knowing she’d been right along about her son’s return to bother. Clint would be busy managing his children’s disappointed expectations. Fury wouldn’t care. As far as SHIELD was concerned his job was done and he could go back to the shelf until he was needed again.

She stood there for a moment, one foot on the bottom step, taking in his attire without comment. At last she raised an eyebrow as if to ask whether he would be inviting her up any time soon. He let her sweat it out for a little while before sighing and turning around to go back upstairs.

“I was just about to have some coffee. You might as well join me.”

“Will it be Irish?” she whispered, almost directly in his ear. If she’d expected to startle him she’d have to get used to disappointment. Steve had learned to expect the jump-scare routine by now. Particularly after babysitting Bucky for nearly a month.

“Naturally, ‘will it be Irish’ — what kind of heathen do you take me for?”

“Well, I’m not sure any more, Steve,” Natasha said as he led her down the hallway towards the sitting room that opened off his bedroom. Those two rooms, aside from the en suite, library, and kitchen, were the only spaces left in the old pile that he still bothered to use. “You did leave without saying goodbye, after all.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry,” he snarked, motioning for Nat to take a seat in one of the two chairs in front of the fireplace, “but I thought Peggy firing me was all the ‘goodbye’ required.”

“That’s uncalled for.”

“Look, I did what was asked of me, end of mission, no need to linger.” 

“Steve,” Natasha began, her voice uncharacteristically soft. It was the tone in which she spoke to her children when there were hurt feelings that needed soothing, “You still could have said something.”

“Why? Peg’s gotten her golden boy back and I’ve always been nothing more than a spare tool.”

“I didn’t think it was like you to be bitter, Rogers.”

“Reputation, you know – a lifetime to build, seconds to destroy,” Steve quoted glibly from some movie he’d seen recently. “Why would you? You never bothered to get to know me, beyond confirming your mother’s stories and fulfilling Fury’s request to make sure I felt welcomed into the twenty-first century by any means necessary.”

She shrugged as if to say “fair enough” and graciously accepted the whiskey spiked coffee topped off with heavy whipped cream. He’d put it in one of the ceramic mugs he’d inherited from his ma. They weren’t fancy, but they were sturdy and Sarah Rogers had brought the set and matching coffee pot over from Ireland when she made the trek to America -- her one real luxury aside from her grandmother’s lace shawl.

“It's a little harsh to refer to yourself as a ‘spare’, Steve.” Natasha said, deliberately poking at the sore spot just to see how painful it was. Steve could feel his jaw clenching automatically. “After all, James isn’t a scientifically engineered super soldier. You’re one of a kind, Steve. Designed to be the perfect soldier.”

“Cut the crap, Nat.” Steve had never cared for mind games. The native Brooklynite in him was suddenly spoiling for a fight (though truth be told, it never took much to set off his ‘fight me’ instinct). “You and I both know that I’ve never given a damn about being a ‘_perfect soldier_’,” the air quotes were audible along with his sneer. “Just like we both know that Bucky doesn’t _need_ to be a super soldier. Do you honestly expect me to believe that that scrimshaw arm of his works because of some tech Zola managed to cobble together while trapped in the Bermuda Triangle? He might be a mad scientist but he’s no Tony. Of course it fuckin’ doesn’t. It works because Bucky wills it to. Because Bucky, like everyone else in your family, to one degree or another, has Talent. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Natasha! I’m not a feckin’ idjit.”

“No, you just play one on tv.”

“Funny,” Steve deadpanned. “Are you going to tell me what you’re really doing here, Natasha?”

The buzzing of an incoming text on her phone interrupted them. Natasha glanced down and paled alarmingly at whatever she read before she managed to cover her reaction with a blank Black Widow mask.

“I need your help,” she said, her eyes giving away how much. “Can you be ready to go in five?”

“Less than.”

** ~***~**~***~**

It had been easier than Loki anticipated for him and Thor to make their way out of Midtown and back to the family manor. He had expected that two children traveling alone would be met with suspicion, particularly at that time of night. But that’s where Thor and his boundless (often boisterous) confidence came into play. Loki could persuade anyone into all sorts of mischief, but Thor could make anyone _believe_ anything simply because he did already. Loki could have used one of the tricks Grandmama had taught him to bend a person’s will to his own, but he already had his hands full making passersby not notice the large grey tabby he held securely in his arms. So, although it wasn’t fair that Thor’s good-natured enthusiasm made him appear more trustworthy, Loki refrained from bemoaning the fact particularly when it secured them a Lyft at ten o’clock at night with minimal questions asked.

Sneaking out of the tower had been child’s play. Literally. Mostly because Loki had had the forethought to befriend Tony’s electronic butler, and because when Hela agreed to be a distraction she didn’t hold anything back. She’d made a habit of studying old recordings of Father’s circus act and had picked up his flair for showmanship. With luck Hela would keep the adults occupied chasing phantoms long enough for Thor and Loki to get to the manor, talk to Uncle Bucky, and return to the tower before anyone could miss them. Since Hela planned on recruiting Rocket, their chances for success were doubled.

The Lyft driver dropped them off at the end of the driveway a few feet in front of Gate, muttering something about ‘crazy parents letting their kids stay out way too late’ which Loki elected to ignore, and then sped away . Gate already had the iron wicket open and waiting for them, shaking happily at their welcomed return.

“Don’t worry, Gate,” Thor reassured the wrought iron guardian with a calming hand against its pitted ironwork, “we’ll be back home for good soon, you’ll see.”

Loki didn’t bother to correct his brother’s assumption. If everything went according to his plan and they were able to talk with Uncle Bucky, make him see sense, then the whole family could return to the manor. The whole family plus a certain nurse. Loki cuddled Tydings close as he followed Thor up to the front door, and snuck a kiss behind one furry ear while they waited for an answer to Thor’s knock. She purred briefly and turned her head to lick the underside of his jaw, before fixing her grey-green gaze on the front door as it slowly opened.

It was the smarmy lawyer Mr. Hammer who opened the door to them but that did not deter Thor in the least.

“We’ve come to speak to Uncle Bucky,” he told the man, shoulders pulled back to make himself seem taller than he was. Then, without waiting for permission, he sidestepped Hammer and walked into the manor, Loki right on his heels.

** ~***~**~***~**

“You’re doing this on purpose, Soldier,” Dr. Zola accused after yet another attempt to access the vault saw them deposited in a vat of sewage instead of the underwater docks that Bucky knew would lead them to their destination. This had been their hundredth attempt since Hammer’s legal maneuvering had evicted the rightful owners from their home. The trouble was that Bucky no longer believed in Hydra and now found himself faking the blind obedience that had once been forced upon through inhuman torture.

Bucky learned very quickly that he wasn’t a very good actor. Every time he was forced to interact with either Dr. Zola or Hammer it was all he could do to maintain his poker face. What Bucky really wanted to do was give into the rage he felt in their presence. Particularly Zola’s. 

If he thought he could get away with it Bucky would have killed him. He just couldn’t see how he would be able to, not with Hammer around.

Bucky didn’t defend himself against Zola’s accusation because as the Soldier he had always been expected to be seen and never heard, and because it was true. He was making them fail on purpose. It was the only way he could think of to keep the Barton-Romanov fortune out of Hydra’s hands and prevent Zola from acquiring the funding he needed to rebuild the chair. Bucky knew that once the chair was rebuilt he would lose all the memories he had managed to regain so far. He could kiss goodbye any chance of ever regaining a sense of self again.

“We will try again,” Zola declared, stomping his way out of the sewage vat and back through the manor. Bucky trailed behind him, flexing his hands into fists to keep himself in check.

As they passed through the foyer they were greeted by the sight of Hammer standing in it with one possessive hand on the shoulders of both Thor and Loki.

“Lookie here, a couple of trespassers,” Hammer cooed in a sing-songy voice and a sharp smile that made Bucky’s stomach clench in sudden fear for his nephews. Bucky felt the color draining from his face and knew in that moment that he had given himself away. 

Bucky had learned that for all that the boys acted like they wanted nothing to do with each other, it couldn’t be further from the truth. And if they were here, then Hela was involved, because none of the children did anything without them all knowing something was up. Bucky’s concern now was what did their parents know? And how could he keep them safe until the Cavalry arrived to rescue them? There was no doubt in Bucky’s mind that _someone_ would come to save them.

“Ah,” Zola said with a spooky grin, “proper motivation. Bring them into the study. If Soldier cannot remember how to find the vault then these two can help us to persuade him.”

** ~***~**~***~**

Steve and Natasha slinked into the house much like they might have approached the lair of the latest villain of the week who was armed with unidentified weapons and using multiple civilian hostages as shields. And in a lot of ways, unfortunately, this was the same scenario. Only it had to be Natasha’s worst nightmare come to life because this time her children were the hostages and it was unclear if her brother was either now friend or foe.

They might have run riskier missions in the past, but any danger paled in comparison when family was on the line. Steve could understand that, even if he no longer had any blood relatives left to lose. He counted his team as his family, for all that they tended to treat him like an unwanted addition. It wasn’t hard to discover where in the house Loki and Thor were being kept simply because Zola and Hammer weren’t bothering to keep their voices down. Steve suspected that Hammer felt secure in the trumped-up restraining order and property case he had been able to get Judge Sitwell to sign.

“Soldier.” Zola’s voice rasped as it drifted down the hallway from the library. “If you vill not do your job then you vill be punished!” He paused there as if he was taking a breath to regain his composure; when he next spoke his accent was once again under control, “These brats will tell me what I want to know.”

They didn’t hear Bucky’s reply. Not over the meaty sound of something hitting soft flesh. There was no way to tell who had taken the hit, but Steve feared the worst. There were only two people in that room that Steve wanted to see hurt, and right now they were the only two he would guarantee were perfectly safe.

“The vault! Where is it?!”

“He doesn’t know,” Bucky answered for whichever boy Zola was questioning. Steve and Natasha hurried their steps as much as they could without giving away their presence by causing unnecessary noise.

“You expect me to believe that this clever boy does not know? Come now Solider, you can lie more convincingly than that.” Zola taunted him. “Hammer! Is that poker ready?”

“Red-hot pokers, really?” They heard Hammer whine, “Do we have to? This is really going to stink.”

“Stop sniveling you worm, be a man for once in your life,” Zola snapped. “Order comes through pain; do you require a reminder as well?”

“No.”

“Good, now bring them here.”

“You leave them alone, you bastards!” Bucky sounded more desperate than Steve had ever heard him.

Steve and Natasha shared a look, both of them agreeing they couldn’t afford to wait any longer. They rushed the last few remaining feet and slammed side-by-side into the double doors,bursting them wide open.

** ~***~**~***~**

Zola had Hammer tightly tie Loki and Thor up to two chairs. While Zola was hovering over Hammer making sure his little sycophant managed to do what he was told, Bucky tested the strength of the manacles around his wrists. For all that they looked rusted and ready to break with one good tug, they held. Trust Natasha to have a medieval rack in her library in perfect working condition.

At least it was Bucky stuck inside the device and not one of the boys. And Zola was predictable enough to want to punish his toy soldier for breaking its bonds and failing its mission to the point that he would ignore nearly anything else. At least Bucky was strong enough to take it.

He went to a quiet place in his mind and ignored the pain. Made sarcastic quips to reassure his nephews that he was all right, although he noticed that they both appeared nonplussed by what was happening. They were truly Natasha and Clint’s children. He didn’t pay attention to what Zola and Hammer said to each other, unconcerned with their own childlike squabbling, only bothering to listen when the doctor addressed one of the boys. The scientist was a broken record. As broken as his organization and his favorite toy, Zola just didn’t realize it yet.

It wasn’t until Zola suggested Hammer to use the red hot pokers on both of the boys as incentive to get either them or Bucky to talk that Bucky fully came back to himself. Chained to the rack, he raged at them, trying to redirect their attention by making himself the more obnoxious target. Bucky had barely finished speaking when the library doors banged open. Steve and Natasha stood like a pair of avenging angels. Natasha was armed with a handgun and Steve had on his arm a large metal disc that he held like a shield.

Zola and Hammer had been hovering between where Thor and Loki were tied to their chairs and where Bucky was strapped to the rack. They froze at the sudden entrance, and before anyone could recover, the grey tabby cat on Loki’s lap meowed through a yawn. Multiple tentacles whipped out of its mouth to wrap around the Hammer and Zola. In the blink of an eye, the two villains disappeared and the cat let out a little “merp,” of a burp, then licked its paw.

“Good kitty.” Steve praised the tabby even as he reached behind him to secure his shield in a harness on his back.

Bucky stared wild-eyed at the animal, wondering how he hadn’t noticed it until then. Why hadn’t anybody noticed the cat?

“Has that cat been with you the whole time?” Bucky demanded of Loki, practically breaking his own neck trying to get a good look around Steve, who was currently undoing his manacles. He’d always suspected the kid had the gift of some kind of extreme camouflage.

“Uncle Bucky, Tydings isn’t a cat,” Loki said in clarification; “she’s a Flerken.”

“Oh, my apologies, Tydings.” For some reason Bucky’s response was enough to send both Steve and Natasha into helpless peels of laughter.

“Are they dead?” Thor asked his brother. He stood free of the chair as Natasha moved on to work on the ropes holding Loki.

“Does it matter?”

** ~***~**~***~**

Epilogue: 6 Months Later

Groot and Rocket had outdone themselves this year, decorating the house for Halloween, but then again Thor could easily say that every year. This year just felt special. Perhaps that was because Uncle Bucky was back to celebrate with them, and Mr. Rogers was joining them as well.

Grandfather was always able to join them for Halloween and he would often bring Cousin Tripp with him so the house was full of family. Thor always loved that best.

Right now Grandfather, Tripp, and Mr. Rogers were engaged in a pumpkin carving contest, while Grandmama, Bucky, and Mother were chatting around a roaring fireplace.

“I am Groot,” drifted into the sitting room from out in the foyer, followed by the sound of the heavy front door shutting.

Thor didn’t have long to wonder who Groot had just greeted at the door because Tony was never one to wait to be introduced.

“I see we’re stuck with a traditional Halloween with pumpkins and scary stories. But where’s the costumes?” Tony demanded, waltzing into the room with Miss Potts. “Thor, buddy who are you this year?”

“A werewolf.”

“Solid choice there, bud. What about you Hela?”

“Nudist on strike,” the teen answered, not bothering to look up from where she was painting her nails blood red.

“Fair, I can respect that. Loki where’s your costume?”

“I’m a homicidal maniac they look just like everybody else.”

“Natasha, Clint, your children are terrifying. I commend you on a job well done.”

“Thank you, Tony.” Father accepted the odd compliment., “Let’s see if you still feel the same after helping me take the boys trick-or-treating.”

Tony frowned at the suggestion before redirecting his attention to Mr. Rogers. At Thor’s request, Uncle Bucky’s former-nurse-turned-special-friend had just finished carving the silhouette of a wolf howling at the moon.

“Rogers, did you dress up as yourself for Halloween?” Tony demanded, “And you call me narcissistic!” 

“Can it, Tony, this costume is vintage.” Mr. Rogers was wearing a pair of red boots with a pair of blue shorts over blue tights, and a long-sleeved skin-tight shirt that was patterned like an inverted American flag. Over that, he wore a brown leather jacket, topped off by a helmet with little white wings on the sides. He looked ridiculous, but Uncle Bucky watched Rogers with the same appreciative gleam in his eye that Thor was used to seeing shared between Mother and Father or between Grandmama and Grandfather. He’d even seen it in Hela’s gaze when she thought Hemidall wasn’t looking. Thor supposed it was just something he wouldn’t understand until it happened to him.

“Just as vintage as you, Capsicle.”Tony teased him and it sounded like an old joke between them. “Alright, everyone down for snagging some sweet sweet candy. Lock and load, it’s time to move out!” With an exaggerated wave of his arm, Tony spun on his heel and headed back towards the front door. Father rolled his eyes but followed, ushering Loki ahead of him.

“Are you coming, Uncle Bucky?” Thor asked.

“I’ll catch up, kiddo,” Uncle Bucky reassured him. As Thor turned to catch up with everyone else he was just able to hear Uncle Bucky ask: “You’re keeping the outfit, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all she wrote folks! I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride!


End file.
